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LION OF LUCERNE 
Thorwaldsen 








TALES FROM 


THE OLD WORLD 
AND THE NEW 


BY 

SOPHIE M. : COLL MANN 

»> 

Author of “Art Talks With Young Folks,” etc. 


CINCINNATI 

STEWART fcf KIDD COMPANY 
1916 



Copyright, 1916, by 

STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
All rights reserved 

Copyright in England 



VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY 

BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK 

©CI.A431906 

/ , 

k ' 




To 

The Memory of My Mother 

ANNA H. COLLMANN 



PREFACE 


Most of the twenty are Old World tales for 
they have a richer past to draw upon, but the 
New World has its romance too, and every once 
in a while it happens that it vibrates to a half for¬ 
gotten string and something that has been before 
takes shape anew. 

In the days of its might and glory the Roman 
army invaded the trackless forests of the Balkans. 
Hostile eyes watched from crag and leafy cover 
but the soldiers built them a road and over it 
carried the eagle banners to victory. Centuries 
later, in the New World, another army found it¬ 
self in a forest equally as wild. Once again sav¬ 
age eyes looked down and gloated over anticipated 
spoil, once again the roadmakers led the way, but 
not to victory this time. Trajan’s expedition was 
carved in marble, Braddock’s won him no renown, 
but it helped a young Washington prepare for 
future laurels. 

Old World Benvenuto made a brave fight to 
give expression to his art and finally gained his 
desire when he cast his Perseus. But the fiery 
Florentine had the work of the greatest of all 
times before him as a fount of inspiration, so, 
after all, why should not fame be his? Hiram 
Powers and Shobal Clevenger, sons of American 
pioneers, amid barren surroundings drew inspira¬ 
tion from tombstones and waxworks and learned 
to shape ideal figures from the marble block. 


PREFACE 


Their names are not among the greatest yet their 
achievements are not mean and they belong to 
our country’s story. 

Intrepid souls they were, those old Venetians, 
who built their city in the sea and made it beauti¬ 
ful with all the wealth their ships could find in 
distant lands. But our New World Venice sent 
its sailors over wider seas and they too, brought 
treasures out of the East each time they set their 
prows for home, and the bold sea life bred up a 
hardy race, well fitted to defend our shores. Oh, 
golden days of our merchant ships, are you indeed 
forever gone ? 

Yes, the New World has its romance which it 
shares with older lands. It has, besides, things 
all its own; it has its “Abe,” the story of its 
rivers, its red men; but the Old World offers us 
beautiful pictures and ancient buildings wonder¬ 
ful to behold; Fairytale dwelt in its woods, and 
the knights of old; Dante it offers and Mozart, 
and the Tale of Troy — how poor we should be 
without these Old World gifts. 



CONTENTS 


N PAGE 

The Old Road: A Story of Washington’s 

Youth .i 

Rosa Bonheur.13 

John Flaxman’s Story of Troy.24 

Sir Edwin and Sir Walter..39 

The Building of St. Ouen.48 

The Story of Bertel.61 

Marquette and the Great River .... 70 

Millet and His Poor Folk.80 

Abe: A Lincoln Story.89 

St. Mark’s Shrine.98 

Fairytale and the Brothers Grimm .... 109 

Two Florentine Friends.118 

The Joyous Venture of the Rajah: A Story 

of Our Merchant Marine.130 

The Shepherd and the King.139 

Two Gentlemen of Verona.145 

Mozart.161 

Of an Adventure Which Befell Sir Galahad 172 

Early Days in Cincinnati.180 

Benvenuto and His Perseus.189 

The Story of Trajan’s Column.198 

Notes.217 





















ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 

PAGE 


Lion of Lucerne. Thorwaldsen ..Frontispiece 

The Horse Fair. Rosa Bonheur . 13 

Dignity and Impudence. Landseer . 39 

Church of St. Ouen...R ouen . 48 

The Gleaners .Millet . 80 

St. Mark's, Venice. Central Arch of Facade 98 

Bronze Horses. St. Mark’s . 105 

Florence Cathedral. 118 

St. George. Donatello . 128 

Adoration . Ghirlandaio . 139 

Cangrande Statue . Verona . 145 

Dante . Giotto . 1 57 

Sir Galahad .Watts . 172 

Perseus . Cellini . 189 

Roman Soldiers .Trajan’s Column .... 206 

Peace . Trajan’s Column .... 217 


\ \v\\\\ v\\ \ \-\\ \\ 




























THE OLD ROAD 


The road served the white man’s needs up to 
the last block house on the frontier, then it ran 
off into the forest and was no longer straight and 
hard and broad, for the light-footed Indian who 
now claimed it for his own needed but a narrow 
trail. So it wound in and out among the trees, 
now over a mountain, now under a cliff, through 
brook and stream and tangled thicket, on and 
ever on, to the banks of the great inland river. 

Here again were white men, but they were of 
different blood and hostile to those beyond the 
mountains. The river was theirs, said they, and, 
giving gifts to the Indians, they set them to watch 
the path lest the men of the East should venture 
that way. 

“ But the river is ours and all the land beyond 
it,” said the English, u and the French shall not 
keep it from us and the little path widened be¬ 
neath the tread of the soldiers as they went forth 
to dislodge the French. Hardy and brave were 
these men and bred to border strife, and their 
young leader knew forest ways as well as they. 
Undaunted, they dragged their guns and scanty 
stores over the mountains and built a fort in the 
wilderness. Here the foe came upon them, strong 
in number and certain of victory. Bravely the lit¬ 
tle garrison met him, but even the bravest must 
sometimes know defeat and in the end the young 
1 


OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


leader and his men marched back again over the 
forest path, and the ferns and brambles crept up 
to hide their footprints and the ruts worn by the 
guns. 

“ Yes, the river is ours,” said the French, and 
the Indians still watched the path. 

But over in England King George was not 
pleased. “ This will not do at all,” said he, “ not 
at all ”; and he and his ministers consulted maps 
and plans. 

“ Ah, well,” said they at length, “ how could 
it be otherwise? This young man Washington is 
brave enough, no doubt, but what can he know 
about fighting? A good general with trained men 
behind him would soon settle the matter.” 

“Very well, then,” ordered the King; “Ed¬ 
ward Braddock is as good a general as you can 
find; let him drive the French out of our terri¬ 
tory.” 

Then over the sea sailed General Braddock and 
with him many men. The ships bore guns and 
stores and the General’s coach of state and after 
many days they came to land. Oh, how the peo¬ 
ple of Alexandria looked and wondered when the 
splendid British soldiers marched through their 
streets! The poor Colonial troops who came to 
join them appeared awkward and out of place in 
this gay throng. Win battles, these? Why, 
they could not even march or hold themselves 
properly! and the officers sighed at the thought 
of training them. 

There was another who sighed, for the stirring 
notes of fife and drum and the sound of marching 
feet broke into the stillness of Mount Vernon 




THE OLD ROAD 


where lived the young man named Washington, 
no longer a soldier now, but a farmer. “ Would 
that some of this glory might be mine,” mused he 
as he rode about his plantation, all unmindful of 
the crops and with his thoughts set only on the 
coming campaign. 

And when he rode down to the town he voiced 
his longing, which Braddock hearing, he desired 
the young man to join his staff. 

Here then were the soldiers and the guns, and 
sailors from the ships to haul them over the moun¬ 
tains, and the new men were trained and Braddock 
was ready to set out. But where were the 
promised horses and wagons, the beef and flour, 
which the army needed? Had they not been com¬ 
manded? Indeed they had and must even now 
be on the way. But neither storming nor patience 
produced them, and the Postmaster-general was 
sent for. His name was Benjamin Franklin and 
he was very wise. He shook his head over all the 
guns and the luggage; how could they ever be got 
over the mountains? But he promised both 
horses and wagons and he was a man of his word. 
So while he bestirred himself in the matter, Gen¬ 
eral Braddock mounted into his fine coach and the 
army set out on its march, so bravely, so gaily, so 
unaware of the horrors of the deep dark forest 
beyond. The drums beat the Grenadiers’ march 
as the coach rolled along, the General’s body¬ 
guard and the aides rode beside it, and the sound 
of many feet was upon the road. The road was 
bad and it grew worse. 

“ Ceremony is necessary and my rank requires 
it,” groaned the General with every jolt, “ but I 
3 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


certainly am most uncomfortable in this coach.” 

However, he stuck it out to the end of the road 
and the fort on the edge of the wilderness where 
he could descend to earth without any loss to his 
dignity, for the King’s Majesty himself would have 
found state carriages useless in this wild spot. 

Here at Fort Cumberland, the campaign be¬ 
gan in earnest. First of all, men with axes and 
picks plunged into the forest to cut down trees 
and widen the road. With them went engineers 
to direct the work and scouts to see that the way 
was clear. 

“ Just like in the Roman days,” thought Wash¬ 
ington, who watched them until they vanished 
among the trees, “ but for all that there will be 
no Roman road for us to march over.” Then he 
came back and contemplated the guns and stores 
and baggage and Franklin’s horses and wagons, 
which were coming in. “To get a few swivels 
over the road was task enough, how then shall we 
manage to transport all these things? ” he asked 
himself with a frown as he had done a hundred 
times on the way. Then he ventured to address 
the General: “The march over the mountains 
is a great undertaking and all this baggage will 
prove a heavy burden. Might it not be well, 
therefore, to take only what is most needful and 
load it on pack horses instead of wagons? ” 

Now General Braddock was a fine soldier; King 
George knew it and the General knew it too. He 
had studied the science of war and had been tried 
in many battles and his young aide’s presumption 
therefore displeased him greatly. “ The road 
4 




THE OLD ROAD 


will be in readiness; it is being made now,” said 
he stiffly. “ As to pack horses, no; we must have 
wagons; that is the European way.” 

However, when the march began many things 
had to be left behind and the state carriage was 
one of them. Out of the glare of a midsummer 
day, then, they struck into the shadow of the 
wood, men and horses and guns, and wagons 
groaning beneath their loads. It was not a gay 
procession now with fife and drum that slipped 
and tripped and stumbled along over rocks, over 
roots, through bogs, but a slender, straggling line 
three miles or more in length. The roadmakers 
had done their best and far ahead were hard at 
work, but they could not lift out every boulder 
nor heave a mountain out of the way, so bravely 
up one side struggled men and wagons and guns 
and down again they came on the other and the 
gloomy forest closed around them once more. 

Oh, it was hot there and stifling beneath the 
trees and man and beast panted, oppressed by 
weariness and dread. Were those Indian forms 
that lurked behind the rocks, or were they only 
shadows? No, they were deer; ah, venison was 
the meat of kings, but here it was not poaching to 
take it. “Tough! ” exclaimed the officers when 
they tasted it. “ Give us salt pork, instead,” cried 
the men, and, “What a country!” said officers 
and men together. “ Bread made of Indian 
meal; how can English stomach endure it! And 
water?—” alas, there was but little water to be 
had that summer, for the excessive heat had dried 
up the streams and even the sheltering woods 
5 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


could not keep fresh the springs and brooks and 
they made but feeble murmur among their ferns 
and mosses. 

On and on plodded the army, but slowly, oh, so 
slowly, so wearily, so burden bent, that in four 
full days only twelve miles had been made. 
Washington groaned in spirit but held his peace. 
His companions feared the deadly vipers lurking 
in the path and the stinging insects that set a man’s 
blood on fire, but he felt the added dread of un¬ 
seen eyes looking down from the mountain tops 
and gloating over the booty coming their way, and 
he frowned and tried to shake off the languor and 
fever which at times came upon him. 

General Braddock, too, had time to ponder as 
he was borne along this endless road to nowhere. 
“ Oh, proud Romans,” thought he, “ is this what 
you endured when your legions took their way 
through Europe? Perhaps you were wiser than 
I and let some young auxiliary guide you occasion¬ 
ally through villainous woods like these. Ha! 
and this young Colonial aide of mine is going 
about with his mouth shut like a trap; there’s 
something on his mind again; suppose we let him 
have it out. I like that firm mouth of his and the 
way he sits his horse; he’s the stuff good soldiers 
are made of; yes, we’ll hear what he has to say.” 

And then, proud moment, the General turned to 
his aide for advice. 

“Take Fort Duquesne at once,” blurted out 
the young man; “ there’s no time like the present; 
the garrison is weak and the expected supplies and 
reinforcements cannot get there on account of the 
drought. They must be brought from the north 
6 



THE OLD ROAD 


in boats and at this season the river is not naviga¬ 
ble.” 

General Braddock nodded approval, “ the plan 
is excellent.” 

“ But,” interrupted Washington, “ we must go 
faster; this creeping advance will lose us all. If 
we could divide the forces —” 

“It shall be done,” said the General; “half 
the troops lightened of all but the most needful 
can push on ahead, leaving the rest to follow after 
with the train.” 

“ And we’ll not wait for the road but break our 
way by sheer force,” went on Washington im¬ 
petuously; but, “No, no, no!” cried Braddock. 
“ The advance is proper and all in the game of 
war; but our men and guns must go in order over 
a road, else all dignity and discipline would soon 
be at an end.” On the question of discipline the 
General was adamant, and so in spite of Wash¬ 
ington’s impatience the roadmakers still took the 
lead although the advance, eased of its burdens, 
was coming close upon their heels. 

Through the forest sped the news, carried by 
unseen messengers, till it reached the French fort: 
“ The British are coming, thousands strong, and 
their great guns scar the rocks as they pass.” . The 
French commander sighed when he heard it, for 
he knew that the fort must fall; he had few men 
and fewer stores, and how could he stand a siege? 

On marched the advance, but Washington was 
not with it; he was far behind with the train, 
bumping over the road in a covered wagon, too ill 
to sit a horse or hold up his head. “ I must be 
there in time for the attack,” he cried as he tried 
7 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


to shake off the fever, “indeed I must; I would 
not miss it for five hundred pounds.” 

On marched the advance, up and down, and up 
again. But a change had come over the forest; it 
was no longer unpeopled; light footfalls rustled 
in the grass, shrill cries quivered in the air; those 
were not merely shadows lurking there behind the 
thickets, and, see, the trees bore strange marks 
cut deep into their bark. Was it mist or smoke, 
that trembled over yonder? It was smoke and 
those in front sent back the cry: “An Indian 
camp.” The fires were burning but the wigwams 
were deserted, one hundred and seventy of them. 
Where might the warriors be ? The answer came 
next day when three men venturing after game 
were set upon and scalped. 

“ Out after the Indians and capture them 1 ” 
commanded the General, and off went scouts and 
soldiers in haste, but for all their search, never an 
Indian could they find. On went the army, past 
the Great Meadows, where Washington had raised 
his wilderness stronghold Fort Necessity, on into 
the forest again. 

“ Indians, Indians! ” cried the scouts as dusky 
forms appeared among the trees, but none were 
there when the soldiers came up. And the In¬ 
dians grew bolder; they came at night about the 
camp, but when the soldiers fired it was only at 
the empty air. And they derided the soldiers and 
boasted of their scalpings in picture signs carved 
on the trees, but the forest kept its secret and 
hid them from Braddock’s men. 

“ We are nearing Fort Duquesne,” said Gen¬ 
eral Braddock to his officers, “ and extreme cau- 
8 




THE OLD ROAD 


tion will be necessary.” So the scouts were on the 
watch all day, and at night, when the army en¬ 
camped, no telltale fires were lighted and the men 
slept on their arms, while the sentinels paced back 
and forth, back and forth, all through the long 
dark hours. 

The road grew more friendly, great pine trees 
stood in rows and the mountains were less steep. 
And now Washington came up with part of the 
rear, still weak and riding in the wagon, but happy 
in the thought that he was not too late for the 
attack. It was set for the morrow and there was 
a council of war. 

“ Now.” said General Braddock, unfolding his 
map, “ here we are beside the Monongahela 
River, two miles from Fort Duquesne and on the 
same side of the stream. We could get there 
straight fr^m the camp by this narrow defile be¬ 
tween the river and the mountain, but the engineers 
tell me that it would take weeks to make a road fit 
for the gun carriages to pass over.” This was 
unpleasant news and the officers received it gloom¬ 
ily but they said nothing. “ However,” resumed 
the General, there’s another way.” 

“The ford?” cried some one, and all 
their faces brightened when the commander con¬ 
tinued : 

“ Yes, we can ford the river here below the 
camp, march five miles down the west bank, re¬ 
cross the stream and continue to the fort.” 

“ Yes,” chorused the officers, “ that is indeed a 
good plan,” and they lost no time stirring up the 


camp. 

“ We go first,” 


said Lieutenant Colonel Gage to 

9 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


his grenadiers, “ and we march before dawn, so 
get ready at once.” 

“ The enemy will watch our coming; let every 
man look his best,” came the General’s orders, 
whereupon there arose a great commotion; arms 
had to be cleaned and burnished, uniforms brushed 
and pigtails neatly tied; drums and fifes, so long 
silent, sounded above the shouting and rumble of 
wheels and the firelight cast strange dancing 
shadows on the tents. But in the morning it was 
a gay and splendid army that crossed the stream 
and marched proudly along the other bank, keep¬ 
ing step with the music. At sight of that long line 
of scarlet flashing back silver, where the sun struck 
the bayonets, Washington forgot his fever and 
calling for his horse, rode on with the rest. On 
through the sunny morning marched Braddock’s 
men until they reached the second ford where the 
advance was waiting. 

“ Yes,” said Gage, as the General came over, 
“ we saw Indians when we crossed, but they ran 
at our approach.” 

“Indians!” exclaimed Washington, looking 
grave, but the General did not hear him, he was 
frowning at some disorder in the ranks. But now 
the army was all over and the march on the fort 
could begin; the advance led as before, the road- 
makers went with them and the main body fol¬ 
lowed after; but the Virginia rangers came last. 

“ They should go first,” said Washington, “ for 
they know wood ways.” 

Braddock, however, thought that real soldiers 
need not fear wood ways and that theirs was the 
place at the head. With this he entered the wood 
10 




THE OLD ROAD 


himself, for it was all woods between the ford and 
the fort. 

And riding there, Braddock went to meet his 
doom, for even then a horseman rose upon the 
hill in face of the advance and painted savages 
stood among the trees. “The Indians! Fire!” 
went up the cry, but ere the shots rang out the 
leader raised his hand and the wild wood folk 
sank from sight to right and left. “ Fire! ” again 
commanded Gage and at the sound of the dis¬ 
charge, Braddock, far behind, cried “ What is 
that? ” 

For answer demon voices filled the air with 
yells and a hail of bullets fell from out the leaves. 
“ Ha! ” cried the Virginia rangers, for they un¬ 
derstood this kind of warfare and they sprang to 
cover behind the trees, ready to meet like with like, 
but the grenadiers stood helpless there; how could 
they fight a foe unseen? 

“Fire!” shouted their leaders, but the shots 
went wild. 

“ Back in line ! ” thundered Braddock, when they 
tried to follow the Virginians. They were brave 
men but the hidden foe wrought havoc among them 
and the fiendish yells were worse than the bullets. 

And suddenly from out the covert, a feathered 
warrior would leap forth, scalp a fallen officer, or 
seize a horse, and leap back again unharmed; alas, 
thus beset the grenadiers were sore dismayed and 
losing heart, turned and fled. Braddock tried to 
rally them but the Virginia rangers did better 
service that day than his own well-trained troops 
from overseas, who, when they fired, more often 
hit friend than foe. Washington was in the thick 
11 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


of the fight, the bullets went through his coat but 
could do him no harm, for Fate intended other¬ 
wise and these woods were to see him once again. 

But of what avail were valor and pride and 
heroic sacrifice? Fife and drum and burnished 
arms were cast aside with guns and baggage and 
all, as the panic spread and leaders and men were 
borne back in flight. The French captain and his 
Indian horde came out from hiding and had not 
the sight of all that spoil held back the savages, 
few of Braddock’s men would have escaped to tell 
the tale. 

And poor, obstinate, brave General Braddock; 
the cruel forest had vanquished him and claimed 
him for its own. Never again might he see Eng¬ 
land or ride in his coach of state; wounded to 
death he went back over the road, and as the 
springless wagon rolled haltingly over the rough 
path, “ Who would have thought it? ” was all he 
said. Five horses had been shot under him that 
day and he had done all that a brave man can do, 
but he had not known the forest and it would not 
let him go. “ We must do better next time,” said 
he, and then he died there in the lonely wood. 
They buried him in the road for fear the Indians 
might find him, and the retreat, man and horse 
and wagon, passed over his grave. But after 
many years, the roadmakers came into the forest 
once more to make the broad new road which was 
to take people out to the towns along the inland 
river. Then Braddock’s hidden grave was found 
and he was laid to rest in a more fitting spot. He 
lies there still in that green solitude, but the river 
now belongs neither to the British nor the French. 

12 










THE HORSE FAIR 
Rosa Bonheur 











ROSA BONHEUR 


“ Good morning, Pig,” said Rosa, patting the 
big wooden boar that stood before the butcher’s 
shop, where he stands to this day, still proud of 
the touch of the little hand that held the fairy gift; 
then she ran on down the street where there were 
more carven animals. Peeping through the iron 
gate she gazed upon the arches and balustrades of 
the lonely old palace whereon crouched curious 
beasts and monsters all turned to stone. The 
morning sun crept in among them: 

“ Oh,” cried Rosa, “ Father said if the sun came 
out we would go to the forest, and it’s shining, it’s 
shining! ” 

There were real animals in the forest — 
dappled deer, rabbits and squirrels — and every 
pleasant Sunday Rosa’s father took his family 
there. All the rest of the week he had to give 
drawing lessons to earn their bread, but on this 
one day they all made merry together. 

Oh, the fresh green forest! The tall trees 
stood in rows, the grass was full of flowers, the 
little pool made a picture of a bit of blue sky, of 
nodding bushes, and your own laughing face, and 
the broad road led through sun and shade to the 
village and dinner at the little gray stone inn. But 
the shadows grew longer, and hark! the evening 
bells called, “ Home, now, home ! ” Ah, and then 
came the coach; in quickly, with little tired feet and 
13 


OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


nodding heads; the wheels turned round and round 
and when they stopped there was the door of home 
with the white moon shining full upon it! 

Rosa’s mother had died, and now there was no¬ 
body to watch the children while their father was 
away. They played in the studio among the easels 
and pictures, and Rosa, who was the eldest and the 
leader, cried: 

“ These maul-sticks and palettes will make fine 
lances and shields; come, boys, let us play at 
knights.” 

Then she and her brothers and Edmund, their 
friend, all armed to the teeth, fought hard and 
long before the high chair tower in which sat baby 
Juliette who was the fair lady of their heart’s de¬ 
sire. Many a lance was shattered and many a 
shield spoiled, and father Bonheur, when he came 
home, shook his head sadly over the plight of his 
maul-sticks and palettes. 

“ Children, children,” sighed he, “ I want you 
to grow up good for something and I fear this will 
not come to pass unless I send you all to school. 
But how is your poor dad to manage it? ” 

In the end his faithful brush and pencil came to 
his aid and provided the key that was to open the 
door of learning to the little Bonheurs, for a few 
more lessons added to their father’s daily work 
paid for their schooling. 

Auguste and Isidore liked their lessons and their 
comrades, but Rosa was not happy. 

“ Your father is not rich like ours,” said the 
girls. “ You eat with an iron fork and your mug 
is of tin; we have silver forks and mugs, all people 
of quality have.” 


14 




ROSA BONHEUR 


Rosa felt this to be true, so she said nothing. 
But the girls too, like the wooden boar, stood in 
awe of Rosa’s hand, not that they suspected it of 
possessing any fairy gift, but because they knew it 
for a hard little fist, so when she said: “ There 
isn’t any fun in just walking round and round these 
garden paths; come, let us have a battle,” they 
knew better than to say no, and straightway at her 
bidding fashioned swords of sticks and with them 
fell upon an unsuspecting enemy,— the tall proud 
hollyhocks, standing in line and bravely flaunting 
their colors in the sun. But the attack met with 
stout resistance and the hairy stalks struck many 
a stinging blow before their gallant ranks lay 
humbled in the dust. Ah, but it was a gay fight 
and the victory was a proud one, but, but — 

“ What a rude little girl, you must not play with 
her,” said the mamas, when they heard that Rosa 
was to blame for all the scratched hands and 
stained frocks. 

“ Alas, my poor flowers! What an impossible 
child! ” cried the head mistress all in one breath, 
“ How shocking an example! She must leave at 
once.” 

“ Yes, yes, indeed,” cried all the teachers, “ she 
must leave at once.” 

And the other girls who had been forgiven — 
it wasn’t their fault, you know — said: “ People 

who use tin mugs and iron forks cannot be ex¬ 
pected to be nice like ourselves,” and they turned 
up their noses at Rosa and once again walked prop¬ 
erly, two by two, round and round the paths. 

Thus ended Rosa’s schooldays. u Let me learn 
to paint,” said she to her father, but he replied, 
15 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


“ No, my child; an artist’s life is too hard for a 
girl; you shall learn to make dresses; that will be 
far more pleasant.” 

But dressmaking proved no better than school 
and once again Rosa was back in the studio. 
“ Let me learn to paint.” “ No,” was still her 
father’s answer but he did not send her away again. 

Now she was alone in the studio; before her on 
the table were the cherries intended for her lunch, 
but she did not eat them, no; she hunted out a 
piece of canvas and some brushes, fitted an oil cup 
on her palette, squeezed out a few colors and be¬ 
gan her first picture. It grew under her hand, 
she had a fairy gift, you know, and the time .had 
come to show it. Every stroke of the brush 
worked magic, every dab of color helped a cherry 
grow more firm and round; Rosa’s eyes sparkled, 
her cheeks burned, was ever game so delightful as 
this? A dot of white here, a bit of shadow there, 
what fun, what fun! The hours went by and her 
father found her still at it. 

“ Dear, dear,” said he with a sigh, “ it’s really 
not half bad. Well, I suppose what can’t be cured 
must be endured; to-morrow we’ll begin work in 
earnest.” 

Work, ah, yes, work was henceforth to be 
Rosa’s portion, for a fairy gift is not a light pos¬ 
session; its golden rewards are not easily grasped; 
giants and dragons guard them and must first be 
overcome. But what cared Rosa for the dragons 
in her path! The first step was taken, the rest 
must follow, and she sat in the studio intent on her 
task which grew less hard as the days went by. 

Auntie looked in at the door. She had come to 
16 




ROSA BONHEUR 


see after things a little and she knew how to stir 
up the dragons. “ Rosa,” said she, “ there’s 
nothing in the house for dinner and the purse is 
empty. Did Daddy leave any money with you? ” 

Rosa bit her brush, “No, Tatan,” said she; 
“ but we can try the corner. Every time father 
gets any money he tosses some of it in there, and 
we hunt for it when the rest is all gone,” and going 
down on all fours, she groped in the dark corner 
among the canvases, pasteboards, easels, and what 
not piled up there. 

Tatan came and helped. “ Ah, here’s a franc,” 
cried she. 

“ Here’s another, and another,” shouted Rosa, 
crawling out dusty but triumphant. 

Tatan without more ado went off to spend the 
money, but Rosa before going back to her work 
sat for a while again, biting her brush and think¬ 
ing hard. And that night she said to her father, 

“ Daddy, people who copy the pictures in the 
Louvre sell their work sometimes, don’t they?” 

“ To be sure they do,” replied her father, “ and 
it’s about time you were studying the masters there 
too; a good artist must let the great painters give 
him some lessons.” 

So Rosa studied the paintings in the famous 
gallery and people who watched her at her work, 
cried, “ How fine to be able to do that! ” 

“Yes, it’s fine,” thought Rosa; “fine to learn 
the secrets of the masters and fine to know that I 
can sell my copy and help clear out the dark cor¬ 
ners at home, but with all their hints I can never 
hope to paint like the old masters and I must find 
my way for myself.” 


17 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


Then she painted a picture of her own, a quite 
simple little picture; just a couple of rabbits nib¬ 
bling at some carrots; but these studio pets set 
Rosa on her way — the animals she loved so well 
were to make her famous, for she could paint them 
as no one else could. The timid little rabbits went 
to the exhibition and nibbled their carrots before 
an admiring public, and their soft coats and shy 
eyes struck terror to the heart of one of the grim 
old dragons and drove him from the path. It was 
the dragon of the dark corner and the scattered 
francs who had become so harmless. Rosa 
snapped her fingers at him, she could earn francs 
of her own now and so could Auguste, and there 
was a new mother who looked after the family and 
kept order. 

But she never scolded about the pets, even 
though there were many in the studio and queer 
ones among them. The sheep was the biggest, 
and it lodged on a platform outside the window; 
when it fretted, Auguste carried it down the stairs 
to the field beyond the house, and as it cropped 
the grass the sound came in through the window 
on the top floor and broke the studio stillness and 
Rosa, hearing it, laughed aloud. 

But she needed larger models — the horses and 
oxen of her great pictures — so at dawn she stole 
softly down the stairs, a bit of lunch in her pocket, 
her paint-box under her arm, and trudged bravely 
on until the pavements came to an end and the 
highroad led straight into a picture adventure. 
Now it was a village fair with lively scenes that 
challenged the brush, now a sunlit field where men 
and beasts worked through the summer hours, 
18 




ROSA BONHEUR 


now a hillside with grazing sheep, and now a dark 
pool with wading cattle; yes, Rosa found subjects 
everywhere, and when she limped home at dusk, 
tired and dusty, it was always with something that 
later went into one of her pictures. 

“ Those oxen are pretty good,” said the new 
mother, “ but if you want to see what oxen really 
should be like, you must go to my old home in the 
hill-country.” 

Finer oxen; indeed, Rosa was anxious to see 
them, so she got into the stage coach and set out 
on her journey. The postillion cracked his whip 
and on they went very fast, for when the horses 
tired, fresh ones took their places. When they 
dashed through a town the postillion sounded his 
horn, at every station people got in and out, and 
at last it was Rosa’s turn. 

“ Ah, it’s true; this is the country for oxen,” 
cried Rosa, at sight of the rich farms, and she 
hummed over and over, the words of the popular 
song: 

“ I’ve two big oxen in my stable, 

Two fine big oxen, white and red, 

only this farmer has six and yonder come as many 
more.” Rosa painted them all, oxen red and 
white and pied; men and fields and sunny skies. 
And then, home again to the studio to turn the 
sketches into fame-bringing pictures. The big 
one, called “ Plowing,” was the best of all, and 
when it went to the exhibition everybody stood 
before it and enjoyed this simple story of labor; 
the six strong patient oxen drawing deep furrows 
in the moist dark earth, the men guiding the work, 
the peaceful landscape with the farmhouse show- 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


ing through the trees in the distance, and the 
sunny, cloudless sky over all. 

“ It must be delightful to live in the country,” 
sighed all the city folks and they too, hummed the 
song: 

“ I’ve two big oxen in my stable, 

Two fine big oxen, white and red.” 

Rosa was now a celebrity and her fairy gift 
was apparent to every one. Her old schoolmates 
remembered how she had led their games, her 
teachers had always suspected that she was gifted, 
and the Government bought her picture and hung 
it in the Luxembourg Gallery where it may be seen 
to this day. Yes, medals and honors were hers 
and she came down from the top floor and had a 
better studio, with a stable for her models. 

“ Ah,” said Rosa, “ this is what I always longed 
for when I sketched my beasts in the slaughter 
houses or looked for them on long, tiring tramps. 
Now all I need do is to have them brought before 
me,” and she sat down to plan another picture. 
“ I am tired of tranquil oxen and nibbling sheep,” 
she said to herself, “ I want horses this time, rear¬ 
ing, plunging, prancing horses, such as I have often 
seen in market towns on fair days; yes, my next 
picture is to be called the ‘ Horse Fair.’ ” 

It was to be a very large picture, more than six¬ 
teen feet long and half as high, and Rosa needed 
many horses to fill the space. But the Paris 
horses proved to be busy animals with very little 
time to pose, so that even after Rosa had painted 
all of them that she could coax to the studio and 
all that her friends could lend her she was still in 
need of more. 


20 




ROSA BONHEUR 


“ Well, if they can’t come to me, I suppose I 
must go to them,” said she with a sigh. “ Alas, 
then, my pleasant studio, I must leave you for a 
while and go back to my old tramping days. But,” 
added she with a chuckle, “ let us see if anybody 
will guess it.” 

Nobody did; many people, to be sure, saw the 
young man who for many days sat painting horses 
at the various horse markets and omnibus stands 
of Paris, but it never entered anybody’s head even 
to suspect that the hard-working little artist was 
none other than the renowned Rosa Bonheur, 
dressed in her brother’s clothes the better to es¬ 
cape observation. 

“ I am glad I came,” said she within herself, 
“ there is more movement out here in the open 
and more action, the light is better, too, and as to 
this most comfortable disguise, I think I shall 
never want to give it up.” 

But if the horses had refused to come to the 
stable, they nevertheless invaded the studio. 
Never, surely, had there been so many sketches of 
horses; they covered the walls, the tables, the 
chairs, the easels, and even the floor; for the world 
just then held nothing for Rosa but horses. She 
painted away at them until she could have done it 
with her eyes shut. Every horse in the great pic¬ 
ture had been sketched countless times and still 
Rosa felt that she must try just one more pose. 

All things, however, must come to an end, even 
sketches, and so in course of time the “ Horse 
Fair ” was finished. The world has pronounced 
it Rosa Bonheur’s masterpiece, for although she 
was to paint many splendid pictures in the years 
21 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


still to come, none would ever quite equal this. 
“ My Parthenon frieze,” she called it in jest, but 
that is just what it is — a frieze of horses; there 
is not much landscape and the men hardly count, 
and they have usurped the entire canvas, these 
ponderous Norman horses, gray, brown and sorrel, 
ready to stampede out of the picture and taxing 
all the strength of the blue-bloused hostlers to hold 
them in. Rosa had wished to portray vigorous 
life and motion and she knew that she had suc¬ 
ceeded. Many of her pictures went to foreign 
lands and she hoped that this one might remain in 
France, but it too went on its travels, and as though 
the restless horses could not endure quiet, never 
stopped until it had crossed the ocean and after 
many adventures was finally tethered in the Metro¬ 
politan Museum in New York City, far, oh, so 
far, away from Rosa’s studio. 

Rosa was now rich as well as famous, and she 
had a castle which she called her own; for the 
fairy godmother, she of the gift, had behaved 
handsomely, as fairy godmothers should, for she 
knew that no fairy story is complete without a 
castle in the end. Rosa’s was called By, and it 
stood out in the good green forest among the oaks 
and silent pools. In the park were deer and lions 
and the rest of Rosa’s pets, but dragons were 
never known to enter there. The lions of course 
did not roam about with the deer but lived in the 
zoo, for there was also a real zoo in this lovely 
place. As to Rosa’s studio, it was just the kind 
of studio you would expect to find in a castle, es¬ 
pecially if you had a fairy godmother. 

22 



ROSA BONHEUR 


Here then Rosa Bonheur lived happily ever 
after, which in a true fairytale means for many 
happy and useful years. 


23 




JOHN FLAXMAN’S STORY OF TROY 

One chilly spring afternoon in 1760, Mrs. 
Mathew was sitting in her pleasant drawing-room 
expecting a visitor. Presently the tapping of a 
crutch sounded in the hall outside and in came 
John Flaxman, a boy of ten, pale and small and 
leaning on a crutch. The pretty room, with its 
cheerful fire and the blooming plants in the long 
windows, seemed the loveliest spot in all London 
to this little boy, and Mrs. Mathew was nothing 
less than a good fairy who had the power to open 
up a world of wondrous deeds before his eyes. 

The key to this world was a little black book, 
which Mrs. Mathew took from her work-basket. 
And while she partly read and partly told her 
story, John Flaxman sat by the table and drew 
pictures of what he heard and seemed to see: 

There was a city; walls were all about it, with 
great towers set upon them. Before it stretched 
a vast plain, reaching to the sea. Through the 
plain ran the river Scamander, bringing water to 
the city and feeding the trees of the plain, but along 
the beach lay ships, a mighty fleet, and a walled 
camp reached into the plain protecting the ships 
and the men within them. And the goddess of 
Discord hovered over the city and the camp keep¬ 
ing alight the torch of war, for the Greeks were 
besieging Troy; nine years had the siege been go- 
24 


JOHN FLAXMAN’S STORY 


ing on, yet neither was the city taken nor had the 
Greeks been driven off. 

Discord felt fierce joy thereat, for the war was 
of her making. Far back lay its beginning, that 
time the sea goddess Thetis married King Peleus, 
the mortal. A merry wedding feast it was, with 
all the high Olympians about the board — no, not 
all — Discord was not invited. 

“ She makes trouble wherever she goes,” said 
gods and mortals alike, and so no golden plate was 
set for her. 

But Discord waxed wroth at the slight: “ Oh, 
ho!” cried she, “you are quite safe now from 
Discord, are you? Well, we shall see what we 
shall see.” And then, when the feasters were 
most merry, she put her head in at the door for a 
moment and flinging a golden apple on the table, 
cried, “ For the fairest! ” and vanished away. 

Oh, the joyous memory of all that followed! 
Each goddess there thought herself the fairest and 
the hall was filled with clamor; but the three great¬ 
est goddesses, Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite, cried 
more loudly than the rest so that the others were 
silenced. Then great Zeus was to be the judge, 
but he was much too wise for that; he knew that 
no matter how he decided there would be two 
angry goddesses, so he beckoned instead to Hermes 
and bade him take both goddesses and apple to 
Mount Ida and let Paris, the shepherd, be the 
judge. 

The shepherd Paris sat playing by the spring on 
Mount Ida, with his flock about him cropping the 
fragrant herbs on the slope. Into the summer 
stillness there came a sudden rush and the god- 
25 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


desses stood before him. Paris held the apple in 
his hand and looked at the three fair ladies. 

“ Give it to me,” cried Hera; “ mine is power, 
and I shall make you great and renowned.” 

“ Give it to me, and you shall be the wisest 
among men,” said Athena, but Aphrodite smiled 
as she promised him the fairest wife on earth, and 
Paris gave the apple to her. 

Now the fairest woman on earth was Helen, 
queen of King Menelaus of Sparta, and Aphrodite, 
keeping her promise, helped Paris carry her off 
to his father’s royal house at Troy, for the shep¬ 
herd lad had turned out to be the son of King 
Priam and the brave Hector was his brother. But 
Menelaus was wroth and he called his friends to¬ 
gether. 

“ Shall we suffer the Trojans thus to rob a 
Greek? ” cried he. 

“ No,” answered the Greeks, “ let us on to Troy 
and lay low its walls! ” 

And they gathered a great fleet and sailed for 
Troy, while the watchers left behind piled up wood 
on every hill, ready to kindle the beacon lights that 
were to spread the news when Troy should fall. 
But Troy lay safe behind its walls; try as they 
would the Greeks could not enter within, and days 
lengthened into months and months into years, yet 
the city was neither lost nor won. The Greeks, 
whenever they needed stores, sailed up and down 
the coast bringing back spoil in plenty, flocks and 
grain and captives, taken from the towns round 
about. And Chryses, priest of Apollo, was 
grieved because his daughter was among the cap¬ 
tives, and he came with gold and costly gifts to 
26 




JOHN FLAXMAN’S STORY 


buy her freedom. But King Agamemnon, whose 
slave she was, refused to give her up until Apollo, 
in punishment, sent a plague upon the Greek camp, 
so that first the beasts and then the men sickened 
and died, and Calchas, the priest, declared that the 
god’s anger would not be stayed until the maiden 
was returned. 

“ So be it then,” said Agamemnon at length, 
“ but it is not meet that I, the leader of all the 
Greeks, should give up my spoil and the rest keep 
theirs. I shall give up Chrysei's, but Achilles must 
give me his slave Brisei's in her stead.” 

At this, Achilles flew into a rage, and drawing 
his sword, would have rushed upon the King had 
not Athena, who stood behind him, seized the hero 
by his yellow hair and pulled him back. 

“ Scold if you will,” cried she, “ but sheathe 
your sword and do not strike the King.” 

Achilles obeyed, but with a bad grace. “ Have 
your way then,” he said to Agamemnon; “ you are 
always first when it comes to sharing the spoil, but 
in battle you let others take the lead. You may 
rob me of my spoil, but it will cost you dear, for 
my men and ships shall no longer help you in the 
siege. I have no quarrel with the Trojans, they 
never wronged me, but as a Greek I came to 
avenge an insult to a Greek; now, wronged by a 
Greek, I withdraw from the fight and my friend 
Patroclus shall go with me too.” 

Then Achilles took off his armor and sitting 
beside the sea, he wept aloud, so that his mother, 
the sea goddess Thetis, heard him where she sat 
in her home beneath the waves, and she hurried 
up to comfort him. 

n 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


“ Mother,” cried Achilles, “ go, I pray you, to 
great Zeus, who will not say you nay: entreat him 
to let the victory rest not with the Greeks, but with 
the Trojans.” 

“ And you, my son, a Greek, would ask this 
thing?” cried Thetis in amaze. 

“Yes, Mother; Agamemnon has done me too 
great a wrong.” 

Then Thetis, still marveling at the strange re¬ 
quest, took her way to Mount Olympus. Zeus 
heard her prayer, then spoke: “The end must 
be as has been ordained, but for a while let it be 
as you ask.” 

And now the valorous Hector, standing on the 
wall, looked toward the Greek camp. “ Things 
go ill with the Greeks,” cried he; “Achilles has 
taken his men from the fight and sits sulking in his 
tent; Agamemnon is wounded, so is the wise Odys¬ 
seus; let us down and take the camp and burn the 
ships.” Then the Trojans put on their armor and 
brought forth the chariots, but Andromache, the 
wife of Hector, came to him on the wall and with 
her went the nurse carrying the little Astyanax. 

“ Go not forth, my Hector,” cried Andromache, 
“ for if you fall all Troy falls with you. Then 
your old father, King Priam, and your own little 
son will be slain, and we women all must end our 
days on foreign hearths as slaves. And the cap¬ 
tive Andromache, waiting her turn among the 
women drawing water at the well, will hear them 
mocking: ‘ See, where she stands, the once proud 
Andromache, wife of slain Hector. While he 
lived her maids trembled before her, now she her¬ 
self knows what it is to face an angry mistress.’ ” 
28 




JOHN FLAXMAN’S STORY 


But the brave Hector might not be stayed; he 
comforted Andromache and held out his arms to 
his infant son, but the child drew back in fear at 
sight of the plumed helmet, so that Hector placed 
it on the ground before he kissed him good-bye. 

Then the Trojans came out through the gate and 
their chariots thundered across the plain until they 
reached the trench. This the Greeks had dug both 
wide and deep before the camp to protect it and in 
the trench they had planted stakes. Hector was 
for leaping it with the chariots but Polydamas held 
him back. 

“ Nay, valiant Hector,” cried he, “ let us rather 
leave our chariots here and cross on foot. Now 
at our ease it is safe enough to leap, but should we 
by chance be driven back, we might fall upon the 
stakes and then, how should we speed across the 
plain without our chariots? ” 

So the Trojans went over on foot and drew 
against the camp. The Greeks flew to the walls 
and their leader, Ajax, rushed from post to post 
guiding the defense. Sarpedon, the Lycian, made 
a breach in the wall but the Greeks filled it with 
their bodies and held them back. Then Hector 
heaved a mighty stone and cast it with all his might 
against the gate so that it shattered and fell 
asunder, giving passage to the men of Troy. In 
they came, a tide not to be stemmed, back they bore 
the Greeks, out of the shelter of the camp they 
forced them — down to the beach where lay the 
ships. 

“ Bring torches and fire the ships,” cried Hector, 
and his men ran with burning brands. 

But Ajax stood upon the deck and with his lance 
29 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


he bore back the foe while he cried aloud: “ Men 

of Greece, defend the ships! Home lies far 
away; no city have we here to protect us, but there 
stand the Trojans and yonder rolls the deep! ” 

All this time Achilles sat in his tent nursing his 
wrongs, but Patroclus, his friend, saw the peril of 
the Greeks and his heart yearned to help them. 
“ Oh, Achilles! ” cried he, “ the Greeks are hard 
beset and the Trojans bring brands to burn the 
ships. Oh, as a Greek, come and help your fellow 
Greeks! ” 

“ No,” replied Achilles; “ I have no part in the 
fight, but if you will, you may go and help drive 
oft the Trojans. Put on my armor and take my 
myrmidons and the ships, but when you have over¬ 
come the Trojans and they flee across the plain, do 
not follow them to Troy, lest you take from me 
my glory, for the fight against Hector must be 
mine.” But Patroclus only half heeded these 
words; he buckled on the armor in haste while 
Automedon got ready the chariot, then leaping up 
behind the impatient steeds, he sped to the shore 
with the myrmidons following close behind. 

Achilles meanwhile took a goblet, filled it with 
wine and poured a libation to Zeus, praying that 
Patroclus might prevail against the Trojans and 
that he might return in safety from the fight. But 
only half of this would Zeus grant, since the fate 
of Patroclus had already been decreed. 

And the valiant Ajax was, indeed, sore beset. 
He no longer stood on deck but had been forced 
down to the rowers’ benches, his lance had lost its 
head and he tried to beat back the assailants with 
an oar. 


30 




JOHN FLAXMAN’S STORY 


“ Brands, bring brands! ” again urged Hector 
and even now one of the ships burst into flames. 
But the chariot of Patroclus thundered into the 
fray and behind came the myrmidons close to¬ 
gether, shield touching shield, a solid living wall. 
Then the Trojans were glad that they had heeded 
the counsel of Polydamas and left their chariots 
beyond the trench, for they thought that Achilles 
himself was upon them and they turned in haste to 
flee. 

And Patroclus having freed the ships, pursued 
the Trojans across the plain, with him went the 
myrmidons and all the Greeks, and then there was 
fighting indeed, for the Trojans went not tamely 
back. Sarpedon made front against Patroclus but 
the fight went against him, which seeing, Hector, 
although he knew that fortune this day was with 
the Greeks, turned about and came to the aid of his 
friend. Yet in vain, for the brave Sarpedon fell 
and Sleep and Death bore him from the field to 
his home in far away Lycia, where he was laid to 
rest in his marble tomb. 

But against Hector, Patroclus could not prevail, 
whereat he forgot the counsel of Achilles and fol¬ 
lowed across the plain even to the walls of Troy. 
Thrice he rushed against the battlements and each 
time Apollo thrust him back; the fourth time the 
god called out: “ Cease, Patroclus, this wall de¬ 
fies thy lance. Thou shalt not enter Troy, nor 
yet thy friend Achilles, who is greater far than 
thou.” 

Then Patroclus desisted, for he feared the wrath 
of the god. But his hour of doom was come, for 
now Hector, lingering by the Scaean gates, heark- 
31 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


ened to the promptings of Apollo and went forth 
against the Greek. Thrice Patroclus met the 
charge but the fourth time Apollo struck him a 
blow from behind so that darkness came before his 
eyes and he reeled and dropped the helmet from 
his head, the proud helmet of Achilles, which 
never had been brought low before and which now 
trailed its plumes in the dust. And the joints of 
the armor now cracked and fell asunder, and 
breast plate and greaves fell away, leaving the 
hero unprotected. Then a great fear fell upon 
Patroclus and he would have fled to his friends, 
but even as he turned he was struck by a spear and 
Hector came with a rush and slew him there. And 
Hector triumphed, for the helmet and armor of 
Achilles were now his; but the steeds and the 
chariot he could not take for Automedon drove 
them too quickly away. Then Hector sought to 
capture the body of Patroclus, but the Greeks, 
King Menelaus and Ajax at their head, rallied 
around it and put up a stout defense. 

All this while Achilles sat by the sea shore little 
heeding the fight until there came a messenger say¬ 
ing: “Patroclus is dead!” Then Achilles 
strewed his purple garments with sand and tore 
his yellow hair and his grief was so loud that his 
mother Thetis, in her home beneath the waves, 
heard it and she and all the sea nymphs wept and 
wailed. And Thetis hastened up from the sea to 
comfort her son. When he saw her he cried: 

“ Patroclus is dead and I cannot avenge him for 
my armor is lost, but if I do not go against Hector, 
I care no more to live.” 

Then Thetis sighed, for she knew that Achilles 
32 




JOHN FLAXMAN’S STORY 


might not long survive Hector, but her son’s grief 
was more than she could bear, so she said: “ It 
is right, my son, that thou shouldst help thy 
friends, but without arms thou canst not prevail. 
Arms I can provide; tarry here till break of day 
when I shall return with them. Till then, for¬ 
bear.” So saying she dismissed her nymphs and 
took her way to Olympus. 

But now Iris, Juno’s messenger, stood before 
Achilles, “Up, Achilles,” cried she; “save the 
body of Patroclus from dishonor! ” 

“ How can I without arms? ” answered Achilles. 

“ We know your want of arms,” replied Iris, 
“ but you do not need them now; just show your¬ 
self beside the trench.” 

“ Aye,” said Athena, suddenly appearing, 
“ come, show yourself,” and she held her aegis over 
him so that a glory surrounded him and he was 
terrible to behold. To the trench she led him and 
he raised a great shout and Athena raised her 
voice with his. Then were the Trojans dismayed 
for the hero appeared as a god in his ire and they 
fled in panic. Thus was the body of Patroclus 
rescued and brought on a bier to the tent of 
Achilles where it was bathed and anointed and 
shrouded in linen, while all the household, 
Achilles at their head, gave way to grief and woe. 

Meanwhile Thetis, having reached Olympus, 
went straight to the dwelling of Hephaestus, the 
cunning craftsman among the gods. She found 
him at his forge, making some wonderful tripods 
to adorn the new house which he had just built for 
himself. Hephaestus was always glad to see 
Thetis, for she had once sheltered him in time of 
33 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


trouble, and in honor of her visit he put out the 
fire and locked away his tools in a chest. Then 
taking a sponge, he washed off the soot, after 
which he put on his robe of red, and leaning on his 
handmaidens, for the great artist was lame, he 
came into the room where Thetis was sitting. 

“ Most gladly will I make you a set or armor,” 
said he, when Thetis had told her errand, “ could 
I but as easily shield your son from harm, how 
ready were I to do it! ” Thereupon he returned 
to his forge, re-lighted the fire, unlocked his tools, 
and all night long wrought upon the wonderful 
shield, done in many colored metals and enamels. 
Embellished most cunningly it was with pictures of 
sun and stars and the great silver ocean; with 
cities in times of war and peace; with scenes of 
seedtime, harvest and vintage. And he made be¬ 
side a corselet and greaves and a marvellous 
helmet, all ten times more splendid than those 
Achilles had lost. And when the night was ended 
the armor was all done and Thetis took it and 
descended to where Achilles mourned in his tent 
over the body of his slain friend. 

“ Cease thy grief, my son; here are the arms,” 
cried Thetis, dropping them with a crash. 

Achilles sprang up at the sound and gazed in 
wonder at the marvellous shield. His eyes 
kindled and his heart leaped at the thought of the 
fray, and he put on the armor piece by piece while 
Automedon once more harnessed the horses to the 
chariot. Then forth to battle issued Achilles, 
eager to avenge his friend. .No Trojan would he 
spare that day, not even friends of old; for the 
sake of Patroclus all must die, said he. And he 
34 




JOHN FLAXMAN’S STORY 


raged across the plain and piled up the river 
Scamander with the dead until the current was 
blocked and the river complained. 

“ Stop, Achilles, even though, proud hero, it be 
given thee to slay every head in Troy, why molest 
me with thy fury? See, my waves are clogged 
and cannot find their way to the sea, desist, I pray 
thee! ” 

But Achilles stopped for naught that day, and 
more dead encumbered the flood. Then the river 
rose in its wrath and bore Achilles upon its waves 
and taking on the form of a god, began to cast the 
dead from its current. Achilles rose on the waves 
and seized upon a tree that grew on the bank, but 
the roots gave way and the tree falling across the 
stream, only fettered its progress the more. Then 
the river in fury overflowed its banks, following 
Achilles over the plain until the hero feared to 
drown. 

“ If I must die, let it be like a hero, not like a 
shepherd swept away in a freshet! ” 

Juno heard his lament and she called to her son 
Hephaestus: “Take fire, my son, and fight the 
river.” 

Then Hephaestus came with fire. First he dried 
up the plain and consumed all the bodies lying 
there, then he shrivelled up the trees and rushes 
beside the bank, next the waves began to boil so 
that the fishes and eels panted and gasped. 

And the river cried: “ I yield, O Hephaestus! 
Why do you combat me thus? Let me but run 
on my course and I take no further part in the fate 
of Troy.” 

Then Hephaestus ceased and the streamlets once 
35 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


more began to flow and the waves of Scamander 
once more murmured softly as the river ran to the 
sea. 

Achilles, however, his great plumes waving 
above his head and his arms flashing in the sun, 
went on to the walls of Troy. And Hector waited 
for him by the Scaean gates. To him his father, 
old King Priam, called from the battlements: 
“ Go not forth, my son, lest thou perish in the 
plain!” 

But Hector made answer: “ If I perish, let it 
be in the field fighting for these walls, but not 
within them.” And he awaited Achilles; but at 
sight of the hero in his celestial armor the heart of 
Hector failed him and he turned and fled, Achilles 
after him. Thrice they circled the walls, then 
Hector, falsely inspired by Athena, stood his 
ground by the Scaean gates. 

Then said he to Achilles: “ We fight now but 
ere we begin let us agree to this one thing, that the 
victor shall not dishonor the dead. If you fall, 
your arms are mine by right of conquest, but your 
body will I restore to your friends for honorable 
burial; promise to do so also by me.” 

But Achilles answered, “ No promise make I to 
any Trojan,” and he made at his adversary. 

Hard and bitter was the fight, Apollo aiding 
Hector. And the gods on Olympus looked on 
and Zeus said: 

“ Shall we let brave Hector perish? ” 

“ It is for you to decide,” replied Athena, “ but 
you know what the Fates have decreed.” 

Then Zeus took the scales and held them aloft 
and the scale of Hector sank, which seeing, Apollo 
36 



JOHN FLAXMAN’S STORY 


left him and Achilles slew him there by the gate. 

Then Achilles did a cruel thing; he pierced the 
ankles of the dead and tying them together with 
thongs, bound the body to his chariot. Thus he 
drove about the walls of Troy, dragging Hector 
behind him. And there arose a wail upon the 
wall, for old King Priam beheld the deed and his 
queen Hecuba, and great was their grief and that 
of all the city. Only Andromache knew it not. 
She sat in her palace among her maids, giving 
orders for a bath prepared for Hector when he 
should return all stained and dusty from the fight. 
To her came the sound of lamentation and she 
arose and ran to the wall, crying as she went, 
“ Surely, some harm has befallen Troy.” And 
there burst upon her sight the vision of the chariot 
dashing through the plain with Hector’s body 
dragging in the dust behind it, and Andromache 
fainted where she stood upon the wall. 

When she had come to this part of the story, 
Mrs. Mathew stopped, for it was time for John 
Flaxman to go home. 

u The rest is soon told,” said she. “ Old King 
Priam came in the night with rich presents as 
ransom for his son’s body, and Achilles relenting, 
sent Hector back to Troy. And now let me see 
what you have been drawing.” 

“But,” said John, as he gave her his pictures, 
“ did Troy ever fall? 

“ Yes,” replied Mrs. Mathew, “ but not before 
Achilles had met his doom at the very gates where 
he had slain Hector. And the Greeks never could 
have taken the city without the ruse of the wooden 
37 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


horse. That part of the story is written by the 
poet Virgil and when you come again we shall take 
it up. 

“ But your drawings you must leave with me,” 
continued the lady, who wished to show them to a 
friend. 

Then John said good-bye and tapped away home 
on his crutch, taking with him visions which he 
never forgot and which many years later, when he 
was a famous artist in Rome, took shape in the 
drawings we know so well. 

As for the little sketches which he had made that 
day, they so pleased Mrs. Mathew’s friend that she 
gave him his first commission for six drawings 
from Homer. These have been preserved and 
are the first known work of the great sculptor, for 
that is what John Flaxman came to be. 


38 







DIGNITY AND IMPUDENCE 
Landseer 




SIR EDWIN AND SIR WALTER 


Sir Walter lived in a very fine castle with 
fountains and peacocks in the garden and a won¬ 
drous library in which he worked his magic, for 
Sir Walter was a magician and people called him 
the “ Wizard of the North.” 

Sir Edwin came to see Sir Walter; he was 
something of a magician himself and he meant to 
work some magic in the library too. 

“ But not to-night,” said Sir Walter, “ and not 
to-morrow; you must first see our hills and stalk 
some deer; all our guests do that, you know.” 
So they sat by the fire and talked and Maida, the 
old deerhound, came and laid her head on her 
master’s knee. Afterwards they had dinner in 
the great dining-room and Sir Edwin for the first 
time tasted a haggis, the famous pudding of Sir 
Walter’s country. Then he went to bed for he 
must be up betimes to see the hills and stalk the 
deer. 

But what was Maida doing in the room? No, 
it was not Maida, it was the big bloodhound Graf¬ 
ton and the little terrier Scratch, oh to be sure, in 
a magician’s castle you could expect to lie in bed 
and look right through the wall into your own 
yard. So there was Grafton looking out of the 
kennel and Scratch close beside him; “Dignity 
and Impudence,” laughed Sir Edwin, but Scratch 
was saying: 


39 


OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


“ Look, there is Dash coming to see the master. 
Poor Dash, he sleeps in a silk-lined basket and the 
footman has to carry him about. I wonder 
whether he has ever buried a bone? ” 

“ Oh, no,” remarked the Bay Mare, putting her 
head out at the stable door; “ Dash is a royal dog, 
it wouldn’t do at all for him to bury bones; why, 
his mistress is a duchess and the mother of our 
Queen! ” 

“ Oh,” cried Scratch, “ then I’m thankful that 
I am not a royal dog. There’s nothing nicer than 
a clean straw bed and I’ve just buried the finest 
juicy bone where nobody but myself can find it. 
As to indoors — were you ever in the house, 
Grafton? ” 

“No,” replied Grafton, “I am a watch dog; 
if I went into the house who would guard it? ” 

“ Well then, you wouldn’t like it if you did,” 
went on Scratch. “ I have been inside and it isn’t 
a bit pleasant. They won’t let you shake a mat 
and they scold about muddy paws, and if you try 
to hide a bone among the sofa pillows, dear, dear, 
what a to-do there is! No, indoors may do for 
cats, but for proper dogs, never! ” 

“ Cat’s meat, dog’s meat! ” cried a voice, and 
the vendor’s cart stopped just outside the open 
yard door. 

“ Get up, Jack,” said the master to his dog 
which trotted by its side; “get up, and watch 
while I call on my customers.” So Jack climbed 
up and laid a paw on the scales. 

“Aha! now he’ll help himself,” cried Scratch, 
for the cart was full of meat. But Jack did noth- 
40 




SIR EDWIN AND SIR WALTER 


ing of the kind; he sat quite still and showed his 
teeth to some stray dogs that came to beg. 

“ He is a watch dog and knows his duty/’ said 
Grafton. 

“ He has had enough,” remarked the Bay 
Mare. 

“ He has had something better,” cried Scratch; 
“ I hope it wasn’t my marrow bone! ” and he ran 
off to see. But he was back in less than no time. 
“ It’s gone, it’s gone! Jack, you found it, I know 
you did,” he cried. 

“ Master gives me all the bones I can eat, I 
don’t have to steal them,” replied Jack haughtily; 
“ why don’t you ask some of the beggars here¬ 
abouts? ” 

“ No, no,” cried the puppy and the retriever 
together, “ we have not seen your bone,” but the 
poor starved hound only hung its head, it was too 
humble to defend itself. 

u Then it was you? ” began Scratch but — 

“ No, it was I,” cried a voice behind him and 
there stood — Dash. Yes, Dash, with mud on 
his silky coat and his blue ribbon all awry. “ I 
took the bone and I’m sorry if it was wrong, but 
they never let me have any and it’s so tiresome to 
live on dog biscuit and cream.” 

“ Dog biscuit and cream, oh! ” cried Scratch, 
wrinkling up his nose in disgust. 

“Dog biscuit and cream — oh!” murmured 
the poor hound, licking his chops at the thought. 

“ I saw you bury the bone,” continued Dash, 
“ and it seemed such fun. And it was a splendid 
bone; yes indeed, it was.” 

41 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


“ Cream and a juicy bone —” again murmured 
the hound, as in a dream. 

u Oh, dear! ” exclaimed Scratch, looking from 
one to the other, “ Poor things, poor things! ” 

But just then the footman came from the house 
and seized Dash by the blue ribbon. “ ’Ere ’e 
is, running after the dog’s meat cart. And that 
muddy! Whatever would ’Er Royal ’Ighness 
say! ” 

“ Come, poor dog, you shall have my biscuit 
and cream,” cried Dash as the footman bore him 
away. 

“ Next time, Dash, you’ll find a bigger bone,” 
called Scratch, running back to the kennel and 
Grafton. 

Then Sir Edwin laughed aloud and woke to 
find that it was gray morning and time to go deer 
stalking. Indeed, the gillies were already waiting 
below. They knew the haunts of a fine stag, and 
with patience Sir Edwin might call him his. 

“ But it takes patience,” said the gillies. “ You 
can’t hurry up things in deer stalking; it’s watch 
and wait and creep along and never let the deer 
suspect you.” 

Patience, Sir Edwin possessed in plenty, but he 
wished the morning had been less misty and chill. 
All the world was wrapped in gray and the hills 
were hid from view. Close by the river sang as 
it ran over its pebbly bed; it sang unseen and yet 
the gillies found a bridge and a climbing path. 
The sun rose and a wind drove off the mist; the 
hunters sat about a friendly fire in the shelter of 
some rocks and had breakfast and then they be¬ 
gan to stalk the deer in earnest. Sir Edwin could 
42 



SIR EDWIN AND SIR WALTER 


see no deer, but the gillies said there was one, so 
he crept on after them, now down the hillside, 
now across the glen up into the wood again, hid¬ 
ing behind boulders, crouching in the heather, 
warily, stealthily, lest the deer take alarm. 

“ This is the spot,” said the gillies at last halt¬ 
ing on the edge of a clearing. “ He will come 
along that path and linger here for his midday 
rest; and now we must wait.” 

And wait they did! Sir Edwin watched the 
bees gathering honey in the heather and the little 
green snake sunning itself beside the mossy stone; 
he saw the shadows disappear from this side of 
the clearing and steal out again at the other, and 
he thought this very dull sport. “ The only way 
to hunt the deer,” decided he, “ is with hounds 
and horn and loud halloo.” 

Then suddenly, he did not know how, the deer 
was there; a majestic stag with broad antlers, he 
seemed to fill the clearing as he stood there in the 
sun. And what did Sir Edwin do? Did he take 
the gun the gillie proffered? No, not he. He 
reached into his pocket and drew forth a sketch¬ 
book and in less time than it takes to tell he had 
the deer, antlers and all, sketched on the white 
paper. “ The Monarch of the Glen,” he wrote 
beneath it. Then a twig broke under his foot and 
at the sound the stag sprang to shelter and was 
lost to sight among the trees. 

“Oh, oh, he’s gone!” cried the gillies, then 
somewhat doubtfully, they added: “ Perhaps we 

can stalk another,” but Sir Edwin said no: he was 
greatly pleased and more than satisfied with his 
hunt. 


43 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


Back they plodded over the hills, for it was 
growing late and the way was long. The gillies 
regretted the loss of the deer and they shook their 
heads as they went along. 

“ Many strange hunters have we seen,” said 
they to each other, “ but never one like this.” 

Sir Edwin, however, was in gay spirits; he took 
pleasure in the purpling hills and the silvery lakes 
and streams at their feet. The sun set in splendor 
but even before the last red streaks paled in the 
sky, white mists floated up from crevice and hol¬ 
low and the hunters once again trod unseen 
paths. 

“ The moon is rising,” said the gillies as a faint 
white light penetrated the walls of fog and re¬ 
vealed strange flitting shadows behind. They 
were the trees and rocks along the path, but once 
Sir Edwin caught sight of a group of deer stand¬ 
ing on the brow of a hill. Presently the path de¬ 
scended; the little river sang once more, the bridge 
led across it, then came smooth paths and lights, 
an open door and warmth and more welcome even 
than the waiting supper — a nice soft bed. 

“ But where are the antlers? ” Sir Walter asked 
next morning, “ Did you forget to bring them? ” 

“ Oh, no,” laughed Sir Edwin, “ here they are 
in my pocket,” and he drew forth his sketch. 

“ Ho, ho! ” shouted Sir Walter in glee, “ and 
what did the gillies say, I wonder?” 

“ They said a good deal,” admitted Sir Edwin, 
“ but antlers are to be had in plenty for the buy¬ 
ing. A wild deer, however, in such a pose and 
so close, too, indeed, an artist does not often get 
a chance like that.” 


44 



SIR EDWIN AND SIR WALTER 


“ Ah, well, you can’t be kept from your magic, 
I see,” said Sir Walter, for he knew, what you too 
have guessed by now, that Sir Edwin’s was worked 
with brush and pencil, “ but come, now, and let 
me show you the entrance to fairyland.” 

Then they went out through the garden and 
along the river which sang as musically in the sun¬ 
shine as when it was hidden from sight and Sir 
Walter’s little dogs, Mustard, Pepper, Spice and 
Whiskey ran with them, but Maida could not 
follow, for she was grown too old. And now 
they came to the Rhymer’s Glen which was Sir 
Walter’s own, and where was the entrance to 
fairy land. 

“ It is here somewhere among the stones and 
heather,” said Sir Walter, “ only the gate is shut 
and I have never held the key. But Thomas the 
Rhymer came here on a summer day singing his 
verses as he sat beneath the Eildon tree. And a 
sudden silence fell upon the glen, not a leaf stirred 
and the humming bees were hushed; but elfin bells 
rang out sweet and clear and Thomas looking up, 
beheld a lady riding there. Green was her dress, 
golden her hair and her white palfrey’s reins were 
hung with silver bells. ‘ I am the Queen of 
Fairyland,’ said she. ‘ Come, ride with me into 
my realm. There you shall wear our fairy green 
and win the gift of prophecy and after seven years 
come back to this same spot beneath the Eildon 
tree.’ 

“ And as she spoke her face was strangely fair 
and her eyes as deep and dark as the black tarn 
up in the hills, and Thomas the Rhymer forgot the 
world and his singing for the while and mounting 
45 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


the white palfrey, rode away with the Fairy Queen 
to her own country. 

“ And even yet,” went on Sir Walter, “ as you 
sit here on these mossy stones on sunny afternoons, 
the sudden silence sometimes falls, you catch the 
sound of fairy bells and start up knowing that the 
gate stands wide open there behind you. But 
with the start you break the spell, the gate shuts 
with a dang, the fairy bells turn into a mocking 
elfin laugh — no, it is a cricket’s chirp — and the 
glen is as before.” 

Sir Walter laughed as he sat there on the mossy 
stone in the Rhymer’s Glen with his dogs close 
beside him and Sir Edwin laughed too, for he 
felt sure that the door of fairyland was not 
always locked to the “ Wizard of the North ” 
and that Sir Walter had often peeped within, but 
he only said: “Did Thomas the Rhymer ever 
come back? ” 

“ Oh, yes, when the seven years were up; but 
people who have once been in fairyland are ever 
after under its spell. He could not forget and 
after a time his longing took him back.” 

That night in the library Sir Edwin and Sir 
Walter showed each other their magic. Sir 
Edwin took his pencil and with it conjured up the 
glen with its mossy rocks and Sir Walter sitting 
there, his dogs about him, and it was very fine 
magic indeed. But Sir Walter’s was even finer: 
he took a goose quill, dipped it into his big ink- 
stand and scratch, scratch, there was his magic 
all over the paper, only a bit of it to be sure, for 
there was to be enough to fill a big book. Sir 
Edwin looked at it and it seemed to him that 
46 



SIR EDWIN AND SIR WALTER 


ladies and knights, castles and towers and deeds 
of bygone days took shape out of the gray mist 
of the past and filled the space about him. He 
saw desert sands and palm trees beside a well. 
Red Cross knights and Saracens were riding there 
and their adventures led to a hermit’s cave and 
into the golden splendors of a mysterious chapel 
hidden in the shelter of the rocks. And there was 
a vision of a fair lady who dropped roses at the 
feet of the knight, then darkness fell upon the 
scene and the magic ended with the page. 

“ But,” said Sir Edwin, u surely this is not all? 
I must know what happened next.” 

Sir Walter, however, insisted that his kind of 
magic was very peculiar, sometimes it was slow in 
coming and he could not promise the rest until 
next year. Then Maida, who saw that her master 
had stopped writing, came up and put her head on 
his knee and the clock called out that it was time 
to go to bed. 

Sir Edwin’s visit came to an end and he went 
home, but he thought that Sir Walter’s country 
was something like fairyland, for it drew him 
back again and again and every time he went he 
hunted the red deer in the hills. 


47 



THE BUILDING OF ST. OUEN 


The monks of St. Ouen, when their other tasks 
were done, would put on leather aprons and help 
the workmen who were building the abbey church. 

John of Bayeaux, the master builder, directed 
the work and set each man his task according to 
his gifts. Some carved figures and flowers; some 
created fanciful gargoyles; some placed stone 
upon stone to form columns and arches; some 
built steps, some windows, and some simply car¬ 
ried mortar; but each and all had a part in what 
was to be one of the most beautiful churches in 
the world. 

The abbot came often to look on. He was 
somewhat impatient, good man, for he loved his 
church and could not see it grow fast enough. 
On this summer morning the sounds of labor had 
again drawn him from the pleasant abbey garden 
to the scaffolding high on the wall. The abbot 
was pleased, for he saw that the work was good. 
Flying buttresses and pinnacles were beginning to 
crop out here and there, slender spires cut into the 
air, and the ancient clerks’ tower, once held to be 
such a lofty structure, now looked small and hum¬ 
ble as it leaned far down against the wall. 

The abbot turned to go, but he paused a mo¬ 
ment to look at the good town of Rouen, lying 
below him. The morning shadows still lingered 
in the narrow streets, but the shop doors were 
48 



CHURCH OF ST. OUEN — ROUEN 














































































































































































THE BUILDING OF ST. OUEN 


open and blue smoke curled above the red roofs. 
From where the abbot stood he could look far 
over the city walls into the country beyond, where 
the broad Seine gleamed like silver and fields of 
grain were promising a fair harvest. A horse¬ 
man came dashing along the road and vanished 
into one of the city gates; the abbot scarcely 
heeded him. 

“Peace and plenty!” he murmured to him¬ 
self; “ could they but last.” Then turning, he 
left the platform and went down by the inner stair 
which led into the choir. Here he came upon 
John of Bayeaux. But the master builder was 
not, as usual, directing the work, for pale and with 
clenched fists he stood, the center of an excited 
group, and the abbot suddenly noted that all work 
had ceased and that ladders and scaffoldings stood 
deserted. Ah, and through the open door came 
the sound of wailing women’s voices and the shouts 
of men. The abbot’s ruddy face paled, too, 
thereat, for it all could mean but one thing: 
“ The English! ” a cry that had brought fear to 
Rouen more than once before. And there in the 
doorway appeared little Guy, the abbey pupil, 
beckoning excitedly, his message forgotten in his 
fright. The abbot turned and followed, and 
when he had crossed the quiet garden, where the 
fountain played in the sun and butterflies hovered 
over the flower-strewn grass, and entered his audi¬ 
ence chamber, he found his fears to be true. The 
King of England was on his way to Paris and that 
way lay through Rouen. 

“ He must not pass this way, said Alain 
Blanchard and Robert Livet, who had come to 
49 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


see the abbot. “ We shall send word to the King 
at Paris, that Rouen will hold off the enemy and 
bid him send men to our aid.” 

But the abbot shook his head: “ King Charles 
is ill. His advisers are timid and weak and his 
coffers empty. I fear the succor will be lacking.” 

Still the abbot did not see what else Rouen 
could do but resist. “ Poor Rouen, poor Rouen,” 
he sighed; “and, oh, my own church of St. 
Ouen!” 

But when the visitors asked him to contribute 
money towards the defense of the walls, the abbot 
cried: “No; no; we monks are men of peace; 
our money does not go for fighting.” 

“ But surely, to preserve our city —” 

The abbot shook his head: “ Wars there have 
been, and wars, alas, there will be hereafter. 
Rouen, however, is a strong city and will endure, 
although sore will be her straits. In her time of 
need St. Ouen will drain its wine casks to the last 
drop and empty its last sack of grain, and we 
monks will tend the wounded and bury the dead. 
But our money we need for the church; work on 
that must not stop.” 

The visitors, seeing that nothing would move 
the churchman, went away in displeasure. But 
for some time after their departure the abbot ran 
up and down the room in great agitation. “ Stop 
building St. Ouen, indeed,” he cried, half to his 
secretary, half to himself. “ Just one hundred 
years ago the corner stone was laid, and now in 
this year of grace, 1418, we are not even half 
through. No, the English wars stopped the work 
once before; it must not happen again.” 

50 




THE BUILDING OF ST. OUEN 


The abbot remained firm, although all Rouen 
railed at him. But he was mighty and had his 
way, and so while the citizens repaired the walls 
and buried their valuables, stone upon stone was 
set upon the church of St. Ouen. 

And in July, the English King drew up before 
the city. At his approach the country people fled, 
for it fared hard with them. The English cut 
down and destroyed the waving fields of grain 
and drove off the flocks and herds until the fair 
fruitful country became a barren waste. At first, 
however, Rouen did not suffer greatly. For a 
while there was food enough, the walls shut out 
the enemy, and each man felt proudly that the 
town was a bulwark against the danger threaten¬ 
ing the throne of France. John of Bayeaux with 
the rest gave of his strength to the walls, but his 
watchful eye still directed the work on the church. 
And it was good work, too. Each stone was as 
carefully placed, each ornament as delicately 
sculptured, each column as faultlessly reared, as 
though Rouen were the abode of peace and joy 
instead of a city in straits with the enemy en¬ 
camped before her gates. To be sure, the work 
progressed but slowly, for as the days wore on 
more and more of the builders came down from 
the scaffoldings and changing their leather aprons 
for armor and their trowels and chisels for pikes 
and swords, exercised in the square or stood guard 
upon the walls. Still, whenever possible, they 
came back, for as good craftsmen they loved their 
work, and then, too, the monks paid well and the 
price of food was going up in Rouen. 

If the square was a busy place, so too was the 
51 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


abbey. Like the prudent ant in the fable, the 
monks had laid up stores for years until cellars 
and granaries were full to bursting. In times of 
peace they sold of these to merchants and traders, 
but now the abbot knew that they would be needed 
at home, and so the monks sorted and sifted and 
prepared for the days to come. At the first news 
of the English invasion the abbey pupils had been 
sent to their homes, all but Guy, who had no other 
home. The boys had been delighted when school 
closed, for getting an education was a painful 
process in those days, when a liberal use of the 
switch was supposed to quicken the intellect. 
Guy’s schoolmates both pitied and envied him for 
being left behind. It was hard to keep on with 
all that Latin, but most exciting to be so near the 
fighting, they thought. Latin! no indeed, the 
monks were too busy for that just now and they 
had other things for him to do. Useless mouths 
were not to be fed in the abbey, nor would there, 
alas, be food for any such in Rouen before 
long. 

“ Come, Guy,” said Brother Jacques, who was 
carrying great bundles of herbs, “ there is work in 
the pharmacy; come and help us.” Work there 
was, you may be sure, for the monks were prepar¬ 
ing medicines, draughts, and salves. So Guy was 
given a mortar and pestle and set at pounding 
herbs and spices until his arms ached. 

“ Here, Guy, these pills must be rolled at once; 
come and help,” cried Brother Jehan. 

“ These strips of linen must be wound for 
bandages. Where is Guy? ” cried Brother Pierre. 

But the abbot, when he came that way, said: 

52 



THE BUILDING OF ST. OUEN 


“ Brothers Jacques and Pierre, when you go to 
work on the church, take Guy with you.” 

Yes, Guy too, helped build the church. Up 
and down the ladders he went, now bearing a mes¬ 
sage, now bringing mortar, now taking hammer 
and chisel and striking out a bit of ornament under 
the guidance of the master builder, and as he 
worked he learned many things. There were the 
great buttresses, for instance, in churches built in 
the fashion of St. Ouen; they were most neces¬ 
sary. They had to go up to keep the walls in 
place, for the lofty vaulting inside, pushed and 
thrust against the roof and walls and threatened 
to force them out. So the heavy masses of 
masonry, called buttresses, were put up outside at 
intervals along the walls. Without help, though, 
the buttresses could not reach the sloping roof. 
Flying buttresses therefore, leaped from the end 
of the buttresses to the roof, meeting the thrust 
from within, and where buttress and flying arch 
met there rose each time a pinnacle with a statue 
on top and leaf ornaments, called crockets, carved 
all along its edges. In the old days, churches had 
not been built so high. They had had round 
arches set on great thick piers, but now in the days 
of pointed arches, the builders wanted to go up 
as high as they could and by putting the strength 
outside, they gained space within. St. Ouen was 
going to be as lofty as any builder could wish, but 
to complete its beauty it needed three great towers, 
one in the middle and two on the west front. 
None of these, however, were as yet under way, 
and the abbot had begun to ask himself, if, after 
all, they ever would be built. 

53 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


He still came to look at the work, but when he 
now stood among the pinnacles and looked out 
beyond the town walls he felt his heart fail within 
him. Of what avail was valor against the multi¬ 
tude drawn up against the city? The walls might 
keep them out, but the English King had cut off 
the way to Paris and he held the path to the sea. 
If Paris sent no help — but Paris would help ! A 
couple of messengers had dared their way through 
the enemy’s lines; through rocky clefts and streams 
and the great wood, and carried news of the 
town’s plight to the King of France. And help 
was promised: “Keep your courage up, men 
and stores are coming,” was the word brought 
back. The bells pealed the glad tidings and 
Rouen took heart again. Out through the gates 
dashed her brave soldiers, falling upon the Eng¬ 
lish who were digging trenches and throwing up 
earthworks. But the English scrambled up from 
the ditches, dropped shovels and picks and seizing 
their pikes, which were always near at hand, 
rushed forth to fight. The earthworks went up 
in spite of interruption. When they were finished 
the commanders told the King, and asked when 
they should attack the town. Now Henry V was 
a warrior king and loved to fight, but just now he 
saw no need for it. 

“ It’s wasting men to send them against those 
walls,” said he; “we’ll not attack, but wait here 
quietly until the town surrenders.” 

Then he sent back word to his good town of 
London, commanding fresh supplies of food and 
drink. “ We’ll be long before Rouen, let us have 
plenty,” he ordered, whereupon every time the 
54 



THE BUILDING OF ST. OUEN 


wind was fair, ships came across the Channel, 
bringing beef and bread, wine and ale, to feed the 
army. 

But to Rouen there came neither food nor help. 
Day after day went by, yet the promised aid from 
Paris never came. The bells no longer pealed 
forth joyous notes, they tolled the dead instead; 
and hunger, King Henry’s ally, shut up within the 
walls, slew more victims than the men at arms in 
all their fierce encounters without. Bread was 
now become more dear than gold and the famous 
abbey loaves were greater guerdon to the builders 
than money ever had been in the days before. 
Pride, however, still upheld the citizens and they 
suffered without a murmur and only the youngest 
children were heard to cry for bread. Mean¬ 
while the monks, whose garnered stores were fast 
vanishing away, sadly meted out smaller and 
smaller rations to the sick and poor, although 
every one in the abbey practised self-denial and 
gave part of his daily bread to the needy. 

The portly abbot, alas, was now grown pale and 
thin and too weak to often climb on high. John 
of Bayeaux, too, was gaunt and seared and his 
garments flapped about him in the wind as he 
stood on the roof and shook his fist in the direc¬ 
tion of Paris. “ Haro! ” cried he, and the fierce 
old Norman cry of defiance echoed strangely 
among the angel-crested pinnacles. The master 
builder paused, startled by the sound of his own 
voice in the stillness about him; no noise of creak¬ 
ing pulleys, no hammer blows, no cheery calls, 
were heard upon the church. St. Ouen seemed 
a half-finished ruin, towering above a deserted 
55 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


city, and what the abbot had so strongly opposed 
had come to pass in spite of all he could do. The 
work had stopped, for in all Rouen there was no 
workman strong enough to move a stone, no hand 
steady enough to guide a chisel. And from the 
roofs there curled no smoke, no sparrows chirped 
upon the tiles, no pigeons strutted in the sun. In 
the square below, too, all was still and deserted; 
only from time to time a mournful group of 
hooded figures stole by with a bier. Rouen was 
a doomed city, yet even in those early autumn 
days, when every living thing that could be used 
as food had been devoured, when the hapless 
crow that might alight on a tree in the abbey 
garden was hunted as a choice bit of game, even 
then there was no thought of surrender. 

The weather now was growing chill and storms 
were blowing in from the sea. Once more did 
the messengers penetrate the enemy’s lines and 
bring back promise of help which never was to 
come, while outside the English waited and waited, 
knowing that the town was theirs. It was in 
these days that Guy learned to hate war. Yes, 
it was a fine thing to dash into the fight on a 
prancing steed and win fame or a hero’s death. 
But to grow gaunt and wrinkled holding the be¬ 
leaguered walls, to be driven back defeated after 
every sortie, to die of wounds which all the oint¬ 
ments of the monks could not cure because the 
body was too weak from lack of food — ah! this 
bore not so brave an aspect. And day by day 
Guy saw this side of the war, when he went out 
with the monks among the sick and dying and 
helped care for them. As they passed through 
56 



THE BUILDING OF ST. OUEN 


the abbey garden he cast longing glances at the 
church, but nobody went there to work any more. 

“ In a little while, a very little while, we shall 
go on with it,” the abbot would say, “ but now the 
poor need our care.” 

And there came a day when Rouen had to count 
its useless mouths, for there was no bread to fill 
them. What remnant of food there remained 
must be kept for the defenders, that they might 
hold the walls until relief arrived, but the others, 
the women and children and the weak old men, 
must quit the shelter of their homes and ease the 
city of a burden which it could no longer support. 
The decree was issued in sorrow and received with 
tears, but no voice rose to oppose it; the chief 
gate opened, the drawbridge was let down, and 
the sad procession passed out. Many of the ex¬ 
iles were never to enter in again, for bitter was 
the fate in store for them; their own city cast them 
forth, the English lines drove them back, and the 
inhospitable and barren plain offered but a few 
scant herbs and roots whereon they might feed. 
And here they huddled for days and weeks, while 
the watchers on the walls wept and prayed and 
scanned the horizon in vain for any sign of the 
coming relief. But none came, no oriflamme 
stirred the idly flapping English leopard banners 
into action; no glint of steel lighted the dark en¬ 
trance to the wood; Paris would not, could not, 
help, and the end was very near. 

Yes, the end was near. The abbot, supported 
by Brothers Pierre and Guy, stood upon the wall, 
hoping that his benediction would comfort some 
of the exiles below. It was Christmas morning, 
57 





OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


but Rouen had no heart to ring her bells, and even 
the English were moved to compassion when they 
thought of the stricken city on this day of good 
will and peace. And while the abbot lingered 
upon the wall, he beheld a strange thing. From 
out the English camp came a train of men bear¬ 
ing trenchers piled high with bread and meat, a 
herald went before, and they marched straight 
across the plain until they came to the outcasts 
beneath the wall. Then the herald, stepping for¬ 
ward, cried: “ King Henry of England, seeing 
that this is the blessed season in which all men 
feel kindly towards one another, bids you break 
bread with him this Christmas day.” 

At this there arose such a clamor of voices as 
hands stretched forth to seize the food, that the 
citizens within the town rushed to the walls in 
dire alarm. And while they were still marveling 
at sight of the feasting multitude, the herald ap¬ 
proached the city gate. “ Men of Rouen,” he 
called, “ the King of England invites ye also to 
dine at his expense to-day.” 

But the defenders, sadly tempted though they 
were at the sight of food, proudly declined, say¬ 
ing that the town was well victualled, and then 
pacing their dreary rounds, grimly gnawed the 
hard crusts which formed their Christmas dinner. 

Aye, sad, indeed, was that Christmas in starv¬ 
ing, hope-bereft Rouen. No little children were 
there to cry noel, no mothers to prepare holiday 
cheer. The abbot turned from the wall in sor¬ 
row and took his way to his church of St. Ouen, 
but as he entered within his sadness fell away 
from him at the door. Here was peace, here 
58 



THE BUILDING OF ST. OUEN 


hope once more possessed the soul. Like the 
giant trunks of some mighty forest, the gray stone 
columns lifted up and up, spreading and interlac¬ 
ing beneath the vaulted roof, for all the world 
like leafy boughs. Red and violet and golden 
light stole in through the matchless windows, 
which the monks had been filling in with Bible 
stories and although but few tapers burned that 
day — for wax was scarce — and the voices of 
the brothers sounded weak and faint, yet columns, 
light, and song soared upward, bearing the heart 
of man along and giving it strength to meet the 
cares and sorrows of the morrow. 

Surely the dark days would pass; the darkest, 
indeed, had passed, for although a few days later 
Rouen was a conquered city and her gates opened 
to the English, yet her mothers and children came 
back, and her men could once more take up their 
daily tasks. 

King Henry had not come to destroy, he claimed 
Normandy as his right and he desired its pros¬ 
perity, and when he saw St. Ouen he said the work 
should go on; whereupon John of Bayeaux and 
his men, the monks and Guy, swarmed up and 
down the ladders and made the air ring with their 
shouts and the noise of tools. The abbot, every 
bit as portly as of old, came again to look on, and 
although neither he, nor yet the master builder, 
nor even the youngest of that generation, were 
to see St. Ouen finished, for it needed another 
hundred years for that, yet the work went steadily 
on and each year saw it growing more beautiful 
as the rose windows were added and the towers 
began to grow. 


59 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


And far off to the east there was growing up a 
child, Joan, the grave-eyed, little shepherdess, 
who was to win his crown back for her king, and 
afterwards give her life for France in Rouen’s 
market square. And when that time was come 
many of the old abbey pupils went with her to the 
fight and great was their joy when the English 
were at last driven across the Channel. As for 
Guy, he did not fight; he became a monk and 
bound up the wounds of others. In times of 
peace he worked on the church and became a 
skilled craftsman, who loved the church as dearly 
as did the good old abbot who long since slept 
beneath its floor. Brother Guy’s work does not 
bear his name, but it was glory enough for him to 
know that it helped to beautify glorious St. Ouen. 


60 




THE STORY OF BERTEL 


Once upon a time, more than a hundred years 
ago, there lived in the kingdom of Denmark a 
poor wood carver and his wife. They had a lit¬ 
tle boy named Bertel, of whom they were very 
proud, and who is his country’s pride to this day. 

Now Denmark is very nearly an island king¬ 
dom, so its people need many ships and spend 
much time in building them. In the king’s city, 
in which Bertel lived, ships were being built all 
the time. They were of wood and each one when 
finished bore at its prow an ornament called the 
figurehead. Bertel’s father was a carver of these 
images and as soon as the little boy was big enough 
he used to carry his father’s dinner down to him 
where he was at work in the harbor. The harbor 
was a fine place, and it was great fun to watch the 
figurehead grow out of a block of wood. It was 
quite rude carving, it is true, but it took the shape 
of a mermaid, or a viking with winged helmet, or 
perhaps a sea monster, or fanciful bird, and when 
the ship was out in the water the figurehead lost 
all its clumsiness and made a brave show. On 
his way home, Bertel liked to linger in the square 
where the old bronze king sat on his bronze horse. 
Bertel never tired of gazing at him, he looked so 
strong and brave and beautiful. Once he even 
took a ride with him, but that was when some 
teasing boys lifted him up in front of the king and 
61 


OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


then ran away, leaving poor frightened Bertel 
clinging to his perilous seat until a kind policeman 
got him down. 

Sometimes, too, the little Princess from the 
castle would go driving by in her fine coach. She 
was so very lovely that Bertel would even forget 
his beloved king when he looked at her, and he 
wished over and over again that he might draw 
her picture. The Princess was a dear, polite lit¬ 
tle Princess, but she could not help smiling at the 
strange little boy in the patched and faded clothes 
and wooden shoes, who carried his father’s dinner 
tied up in a red handkerchief and stared at her 
with such wondering eyes. But the day was to 
come when she would smile at him differently and 
Bertel would have his wish and make more than 
one picture of her. 

But the pleasantest time after all was of a 
winter evening when the family gathered about 
the fire and father and grandfather carved out 
little models for new figureheads and told stories 
to beguile the time. Denmark, you know, is very 
far north, a cold and foggy country, and its peo¬ 
ple are shut up in the house a great part of the 
year. Perhaps that is one reason why they are 
so fond of fairytales and stories. So while the 
wind howled outside and snow and sleet beat 
against the window panes, Bertel took fireside 
journeys to distant lands. 

Away he would go on the wings of fancy to 
frozen Iceland with its strange fiery Mount Hecla 
and its boiling geysers. He saw again an old, old 
ancestor in the long ago, sitting in his hall on soft 
white bearskin rugs and carving such wonderful 
62 



THE STORY OF BERTEL 


chests and shields that all who beheld them mar¬ 
veled at the magic of his art. Or he sailed away 
in the queer ancient ship with another ancestor to 
that strange new land beyond the sea. Many 
days they flew before the wind until at last they 
reached a rocky shore where none but red men 
dwelt. Here Bertel played about the beach with 
little Snorri, the first white child born in that land, 
and who was one of Bertel’s forefathers, too. 
Together they clambered about the rocks after 
berries and flowers, or watched the building of 
the ancient tower, the walls of which still stand 
upon that coast. 

But better still than all this it was to hear of 
the pleasant lands to which the ships in the harbor 
sometimes went. There it was never cold and 
foggy, like here at home, but the sun shone warm 
and it was summer the year round. Tall cypresses 
stood darkly against the blue sky and orange trees 
grew by the wayside and not in tubs like in the 
King’s garden. And grandfather, who had been 
there, could tell of towers that looked like lace 
but were really of marble, and of cool, dim halls 
filled with the loveliest white statues, all of mar¬ 
ble, too; oh, how Bertel longed to see this won¬ 
drous land! 

And all the while that Bertel was listening his 
hands were busy with a knife and a bit of wood, 
and then, one day, it was found that he, too, like 
his father and grandfather and the ancient Ice¬ 
land chieftain, could carve. 

“ Bertel must have some lessons,” said his 
father, “ then he can carve better things than 
ship’s figureheads.” 


63 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


So Bertel went to the academy, where one 
learned how to draw and carve and model in clay. 
He was a good pupil and took prizes, and in his 
free time he helped his father with the figure¬ 
heads. Once he and his father together carved 
a gateway for the King’s garden and Bertel felt 
pleased every time the Princess drove under it. 

“ Bertel can carve quite well now,” said his 
father, “ he needs no more lessons,” but the 
teachers at the academy exclaimed at this. 

“Oh, no, indeed,” cried they; “Bertel needs 
many more lessons, but not here; we have taught 
him all we know, and he must go away to Italy, 
where he can learn more, for your Bertel is not 
going to be a wood carver after all; he will carve 
in marble and be a sculptor.” 

“That can never be,” said Bertel’s father; “ I 
am a poor man and cannot pay for that and my 
son will have to content himself with being a wood 
carver like his father, only a better one.” 

“Oh!” cried all the teachers together, “that 
would be too bad; no, Bertel really must become 
a sculptor; the academy will pay for him and then 
when he becomes famous we shall all be so proud 
of him, and he can help you more than if he were 
only a poor workman.” 

And so it happened that one day Bertel got into 
one of the ships in the harbor and sailed away to 
the sunny land of his dreams. It was all even 
more lovely than he had imagined, and for a long 
time he went about lost in wonder and delight. 
But he must get to work, so he found himself a 
workroom and began to form his thoughts in clay. 
For many days, however, he was most unhappy 
64 




THE STORY OF BERTEL 


and broke up his models as fast as he made them. 
Then he would think, and study, and try again. 
One model, however, he did not destroy; this was 
a great plaster figure of Jason, the hero of the 
Golden Fleece, and Bertel knew it to be good. It 
stood in the middle of the large cool studio and 
everybody who saw it was loud in its praise. But 
nobody wanted to buy it, yet this was most neces¬ 
sary, for Bertel needed money: he had now been 
from home six years and he felt that it was not 
fair to let the academy take care of him any 
longer. 

“ I shall have to go back to Denmark and wood 
carving if marble carving does not turn out better 
than this,” he said sadly. 

So he packed his trunk and broke his models 
and bought a seat in the stage coach that was to 
take him from Rome on the morrow. But at the 
appointed time some accident prevented his de¬ 
parture and so, instead of being miles on his way, 
he was sitting on his trunk in the empty studio 
gazing sadly at his Jason, which was too large to 
pack and which he would not destroy. As he 
gazed thus disconsolately, there came a sudden 
knock at the door and in stepped Mr. Thomas 
Hope — and Bertel’s troubles were over. 

Mr. Hope was an Englishman who loved works 
of art, and he had come to visit the sculptor who 
had had the studio before Bertel, and who had 
been none other than John Flaxman. Mr. Hope 
saw the Jason statue and admired it so much that 
he bought it then and there and begged Bertel to 
get it into marble as soon as possible. How 
happy Bertel felt! Now he could help his father 
65 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


and mother. He unpacked his trunk and from 
that day on was famous and had more work than 
he could ever finish. 

Bertel had many beautiful thoughts as have all 
people who are kind and loving, although all do 
not have his happy gift of fixing them in marble. 
If he saw a pretty little girl dancing for joy, she 
became a little marble image dancing down 
through the ages until the stone shall crumble. If 
he saw a baby boy hugging his puppy, he thought 
of Cupid and his faithful dog and put the thought 
into marble. The dawn of a summer morning 
painted a picture for him in the sky and Bertel 
took a lump of clay and told it after as he saw it. 
With skillful fingers he traced out the smiling 
spirit of day, fanning a fresh breeze with her great 
strong wings. She scatters flowers over the 
awakening earth and the little cherub by her side 
swings his flaming torch to drive away the dark. 
Then he made a relief to match it. Ah, the night 
is tired and weary! See, she has folded her 
wings and is flying slowly. She looks dreamily 
down on the sleeping city below. Her little loves 
are fast asleep and her owlet alone is wakeful. 

While Bertel was still studying in his Danish 
home a grievous war broke out in the kingdom of 
France. The king of that country and his people 
could not get on together; he was not a bad king, 
but the kings before him and their friends had 
treated the people badly and now the country was 
grown so poor that the people had no bread. 

“ The King must give us some,” cried they; “ he 
is the King, he must not let his people suffer; come, 
let us go to the palace and tell him.” 

66 




THE STORY OF BERTEL 


So the great crowd armed with muskets and 
pikes, with clubs, with staves, with anything, 
marched through the city and out along the road 
to the royal palace. When they saw them coming, 
the King and Queen and the little Prince and 
Princess mere much afraid, but the King’s body¬ 
guard, the brave Swiss soldiers, bade them not to 
fear: “ We shall not let them in,” said they, and 
they stood before the door. But the people would 
not be driven back, hunger had made them fierce 
and they were so many that they pushed on and 
on, forcing the guards back through the door and 
up the stairs, striking down one after the other 
until the last one had fallen. Then the mob 
crowded into the room where the royal family sat 
in fear and trembling and the King gave the 
promise which he could not keep. The King and 
Queen afterwards met with a sad fate, but that 
does not belong to Bertel’s story. 

The war was long since over now, but the peo¬ 
ple of Switzerland wished to keep alive the mem¬ 
ory of the faithful Swiss guards. 

“ Let us put up a monument in their honor and 
get the best sculptor to make it,” said they, and as 
Bertel was the best sculptor, they came to him. 

“ Fidelity and bravery, how can I best portray 
them? ” said Bertel. “ The lion is brave; I shall 
make a figure of a lion, wounded unto death yet 
still protecting to the last, the lily shield of France. 
And beside him I shall place the shield of Switzer¬ 
land.” 

This beautiful and simple tribute was carved 
out of the living rock in a mountain side in Lucerne 
and every one who sees it thinks of the men who 
67 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


were so faithful to their trust, and of the great 
artist who knew so well how to express it. 

Yes, Bertel was busy and renowned; princes 
and kings were proud to have his work, and he 
had to take pupils and apprentices to help him. 
Some of these came from far away, from England 
and America, and a few among them became 
famous in turn. The great workroom which had 
once looked so bare was now crowded with casts 
and marble blocks and workmen, and from all the 
chisel blows, noise and confusion Bertel’s thoughts 
stole forth one by one, snowy and simple and rest¬ 
ful in form, and carried their maker’s name farther 
than his fancy had ever flown. 

But now the people at home in Denmark, and 
especially the King, begged him to come back to 
them: they wanted something of him too. 

Yes, said Bertel, he would; but he must first 
finish his Alexander frieze with all its horses and 
men, and the statue of the great poet, which he 
was just beginning; and, oh, dear, yes, another 
monument for a tomb; and when these were done 
there were just as many new things which he must 
first do, so that it really seemed that he could not 
get away at all. 

At last, however, he did manage it, and it was 
a great day when the ship bringing him came into 
the harbor. All the streets and houses were hung 
with flags and bunting, cannon were fired, and the 
students and school children marched in proces¬ 
sion, and the King invited Bertel to the castle. 
The Princess was there, too, and she told him that 
he had brought great honor upon her father’s 
kingdom and she begged him never to go away 
68 




THE STORY OF BERTEL 


again but stay there always and live in the castle. 
She also wished so much that he would picture her 
in marble, whereupon Bertel told her how he had 
longed to do that very thing in the days of long 
ago, when she had passed the little wood carver’s 
son on his way to the harbor, and then they both 
laughed when they thought of the old times. 

Bertel now lived in the castle and no one in 
Denmark, not even the King, was greater than he. 
He often walked about the old town and wondered 
that it should be so unchanged; in the harbor the 
ships were still coming and going and in the ship¬ 
yards new figureheads were being carved, al¬ 
though his father no longer had to do this work. 
There, too, in the square, still sat the old bronze 
king. Bertel could now make as fine a king and 
even a better, but he was as fond of him as ever. 
One new thing, however, there was for Bertel to 
see; this was the new museum which was being 
built to hold his works alone. Here one may still 
see some of his first, some of his finest, and even 
his last unfinished piece, with the trowel still stick¬ 
ing in the clay and the print of his fingers upon it. 
Here, too, is his tomb and here he was laid to 
rest when at last his busy life was over. 

This little boy Bertel, whose life was like a 
fairy-tale, is known to the world as Bertel Thor- 
waldsen. 


69 




MARQUETTE AND THE GREAT 
RIVER 


The cabin had no window and the fire which 
roared up the rude •chimney furnished the only 
light. Pierre was stirring the kettle which held 
the dinner, Jacques was chopping wood outside, 
and Father Marquette lay on his couch of skins, 
gazing quietly at the changing pictures in the em¬ 
bers. They were all alone in the great wide 
prairie, these three, far from their beloved mis¬ 
sion in the North. All that summer they had been 
exploring the wilderness and teaching the Indians, 
but when cold weather came on Father Marquette 
fell ill, so they built them a little hut beside the 
lake and waited for the spring. 

Jacques came in, bringing the wood. “ It has 
stopped snowing, but it’s cold,” said he, blowing 
upon his fingers; “I call this fine Christmas 
weather.” 

“ Yes,” said Pierre, “ and Christmas dinner will 
soon be ready but I could wish for some guests to 
share it with us. Up at the mission now, they 
are ringing the bells and the Indians are coming 
from all the islands and our poor, dear, little 
church is crowded. Afterwards there will be a 
merry feast — yes, that’s how I like Christmas.” 

u ‘ Peace on earth and good will to men,’ so 
sang the angels,” said Father Marquette with a 
70 


MARQUETTE 


smile, “ and perhaps, Pierre, your wish has even 
now moved some kind soul to call in the hungry 
guest that could not come to you. And, Pierre, 
your dinner should have the proper flavor, for 
Christmas memories have been in the fire that 
warmed it. Old Christmases came back to me as 
1 lay here watching it and my dear home town, 
Laon, rose there in the glow with all its walls and 
towers. I was a child again and it was Christmas 
morning. My mother took me by the hand and 
we came down the long street and into the square, 
all white with snow, but a great bright star shone 
out in the sky just above the church. We went 
inside and there was the Manger with the Holy 
Child and the Shepherds and Wise Men kneeling 
before him. ‘ Noel! Noel! ’ cried the children 
in the street — when we celebrate Christmas again 
in the mission, we must have a Manger.” 

“But hark! What is that?” cried Jacques, 
lifting his head, but for all they strained their 
ears no sound came to them save the wash of the 
waves as they ran to shore. “ But surely —” 
began Jacques. Ah, there it was again, a faint 
distant shout. Jacques ran to the door, “ Christ¬ 
mas guests, four of them,” he cried. “ Quick, 
Pierre, put more meat into your kettle while I go 
to meet them.” 

“ It must be the doctor,” said Father Marquette 
to Pierre, who dared not quit his dinner, and so 
it was, for presently the door opened and in came 
the doctor and with him three Indians and Jacques. 
The doctor was a good neighbor even though he 
lived fifty miles away and he and his friend the 
trapper, who lived with him, had helped to rear 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


the cabin for Father Marquette. The Indians 
lived in their village not quite so far away. They 
carried each a sack which they now set down, and 
they said: 

“We have come to our friend the Blackgown, 
with gifts and a prayer. These beaver skins are 
to make him a mat, these sacks of corn and pump¬ 
kins and dried meat are to keep hunger from his 
cabin. And our prayer is for powder and for 
axes and beads.” 

“ And I,” said the doctor, “ have come for a 
visit and a friendly chat before the snow and cold 
pen me up in my own forest,”— but his coming 
was really because of Father Marquette’s illness 
and a desire to help him. 

Father Marquette, however, smiled and nodded 
to the doctor, but to the Indians he said: “ Wel¬ 
come, my children; I thank you for your good 
gifts and for coming so far to see me. Most 
gladly will I give you what you ask, all but the 
powder; this I cannot give, for I come to you in 
peace and to instruct you in prayer, and I would 
not see you make war upon the Miamis, your 
neighbors.” 

Then Jacques brought the chest and the good 
Blackgown took from it axes, knives and beads 
and other tools and trinkets and gave them to his 
guests in return for their gifts. 

But now Pierre lifted the kettle from the fire 
and bade the guests draw near. He knew the 
secrets of the kitchen, did Pierre, and if there 
were no wild turkey to put into the pot, he could 
make dried bear’s meat and pumpkin taste just as 
well. So they feasted about the fire, and after 
73 



MARQUETTE 


they had eaten up everything they sat and talked. 
The Blackgown and the Frenchmen had had ad¬ 
ventures on the great river and the Indians were 
curious to hear them. They knew the Mississippi, 
the Father of Waters, too, oh, yes, and their 
canoes had been borne on its current. But it was 
not to be trusted; on its banks were the picture 
rocks with spells set upon them by some dread 
spirit; within its depths lurked monsters ready to 
swallow up boats and men, and, if you escaped 
these, fierce and cruel men lay in wait beyond; 
surely great medicine must be theirs that had tried 
it and come back whole. 

“ Yes,” said Father Marquette, “ we passed the 
picture rocks, but the ancient pictures painted upon 
them can work no evil spells.” 

“ But the monsters? ” cried the Indians. 

“ We met with dangerous rapids, but no 
monsters opened their jaws to swallow us.” 

The Indians looked disappointed. “ But the 
fierce men? ” they queried. 

“ Yes, those we met,” replied Father Mar¬ 
quette. “ And they threw their war clubs at us,” 
added Pierre. 

“ Ah,” breathed the Indians, much relieved. 

“ It was down in the Southland where they sow 
corn twice a year and where the mosquitoes are 
more fierce than the heat,” cried Jacques, who 
could tell all about the river too. 

Then spoke the oldest of the Indians: “We 
pray the Blackgown and his friends to paint us a 
word picture of the river from its beginning to its 
end so that we may carry the tale to our brethren.” 

“ The beginning of the river we did not see,” 
79 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


said Father Marquette, “ nor yet its end, for that 
was held by a hostile nation, but we were many 
days upon its waters and what we saw thereon I 
will gladly relate to you and my friends will help 
me remember. The spell of the river had been 
long upon us. Some said that it led westward to 
the sea, others that it ran south, and all that 
winter we made maps and plans and waited for 
the spring. It came in May and with it the Sieur 
Jolliet, who was to help, and then our bark canoes 
went out upon the lake. We took with us dried 
beef and corn, our hearts were light and every 
portage was a bed of spring bloom. We came to 
the village on Green Bay where our brethren had 
lingered years before. The cross still stood 
where they had placed it in the center of the 
village and it was hung with white skins, red- 
colored belts and other offerings to the Great 
Manitou. The chieftains came out to meet us and 
to them we said: ‘ The governor has sent Jolliet 
to find the river and Marquette comes with him to 
bring prayer to the people on its shores; give us, 
therefore, two guides to set us on our way.’ This 
they did and they all stood on the bank next day 
to see us off. On and on we went, through bay 
and lake and river and the lovely land between. 
Our guides turned back and then, in June, the 
longed-for river at last lay before us, swift and 
broad and shining in the sun. No white man had 
been here before us and we knelt down on the 
bank and gave thanks to Heaven for having 
brought us so far. Gently the stream took up 
our frail canoes and bore them swiftly on through 
the silent places, for it was in truth a solitude 
74 




MARQUETTE 


which encompassed us. No human form was 
seen, no smoke curled above the trees, save only 
that from our own fire when we landed at one of 
the islands which rose one after the other in our 
path. Moose and deer, we saw, and when we 
passed a plain, great herds of shaggy bison, but 
for days and days it was as in the time of creation 
when the earth was fresh and beautiful and green, 
when birds and beasts and fishes dwelled therein 
but man had not yet come to take his place in 
Eden. And then we saw footprints in the sand 
and a narrow beaten track in the tall grass beck¬ 
oned to us as it ran on over the hill. ‘ Come,’ 
cried Jolliet and we beached the canoes and 
entered the path. Warily we went and silently, 
for none knew what dangers might lurk beyond, 
nor what manner of men had trod where we now 
followed. But our quest led us straight into a 
quiet Indian village and seeing that no one came 
to greet us, we called aloud, saying that our com¬ 
ing was in peace. Upon this the old men issued 
forth, bearing the calumet and speaking words of 
welcome, after which they set a feast before us 
and offered gifts in token of their friendship. 
They were warriors of renown, the dread of their 
foes, but kindest of friends, and they called them¬ 
selves Illinois.” 

Father Marquette paused and smiled at his 
guests, for they, too, were of this nation. They 
smiled back and murmured their approval, but the 
doctor shook his head. He knew that it is not 
good for sick people to talk too much, so he felt 
Father Marquette’s pulse and said: “ You need 
rest; let Pierre go on with the tale.” Father 
75 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


Marquette nodded and so did the Indians, for the 
medicine man must be obeyed, and Pierre began: 

“It was a different river beyond the village; 
there had been fishes in it before, we had caught 
some of them too, but now when we looked down 
into the depths we saw monstrous forms with great 
round heads set with bristling quills not pleasant 
to see; they came up from time to time and more 
than once nearly overturned our canoes, but Sieur 
Jolliet did not fear them and our own Blackgown 
stood up in the boat and wrote about them in his 
book. 

“ We came to the picture rocks, giant figures 
covered their rugged sides, but they would have 
looked better without them and we hurried by. 
From beyond came a great sound as of rushing 
waters. ‘ A cataract! * cried we all, but it was a 
mighty river which sent its yellow flood into our 
clear stream and turned it sullen and murky. 
Trunks of trees floated by and the shores were 
far away. The stream grew broader and our 
good canoes looked very small upon it. Another 
yellow river tumbled its waters into our stream 
and here we had a most excellent dinner, for the 
woods on its banks were full of nice plump pig¬ 
eons. n 

“ Ah, yes,” laughed Jacques, “ Father Mar¬ 
quette and Sieur Jolliet are very fine explorers but 
if you want to know what there is to eat along the 
river, ask Pierre. But never mind, Pierre, those 
pigeons were good; go on.” 

“ That river was the Ohio,” said Father Mar¬ 
quette half to himself, “ and soon after came the 
Southland where all was new and strange. We 
76 



MARQUETTE 


seemed to be sailing on a great molten sea, the 
sky hung over us a steel blue dome and we breathed 
as in a fiery furnace.” 

“ Yes,” broke in Pierre, “ it was hot, and the 
land when we came to it was flat and so low that 
the river sometimes stood upon it. Canes grew 
here stalk beside stalk until, as the Sieur Jolliet 
said, you thought yourself among a thousand 
masts. They have no winter in the Southland,” 
went on Pierre, “ and many good fruits grow 
there, but it is not pleasant under that fierce hot 
sun and at night, when you are most tired, the 
mosquitoes will not let you rest.” 

“Ah, those mosquitoes,” cried Jacques; “the 
Indians down there sleep on platforms raised on 
poles with a fire underneath to smoke them out; 
we, however, built little shelters with our sails, for 
the smoke was not to our liking.” 

“ It must be the hot sun which makes the South¬ 
land tribes so fierce,” continued Pierre, “ but we 
met with no more friendly greetings and our last 
adventure might have ended badly. Surly faces 
met us from the shore and war clubs were in the 
hands of those that watched us. But Father Mar¬ 
quette held up his calumet before them and the 
Indians made peace and offered us beef and white 
plums. But the next time they would not see the 
calumet and the war clubs came flying through the 
air, while the young men leaped into the water and 
made to seize our canoes. Ah, but the current 
was too strong and they could only yell and dance 
and wave defiance. Jolliet stood undismayed 
through it all and Father Marquette still showed 
the calumet even though the warriors were trying 
77 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


the arrows to their bows. Then the oldest chief¬ 
tain beheld the calumet of peace and at his com¬ 
mand arrows and bows together fell in a harmless 
shower into the canoes and at our feet and the 
chiefs begged us to come ashore. ‘Dare we? ’ 
asked Jolliet. ‘ We must,’ said Father Marquette, 
and so we rowed in and had no cause to rue it.” 

u Yes,” said Father Marquette, “ our adventures 
ended here where the Arkansas came to join our 
river. Our new friends lived in houses built of 
clay and made fine earthen pots. They wore 
mantles of soft white bark and theirs was a land 
of plenty. The river’s mouth, they told us, was 
but ten days’ journey farther down, and there 
were white men living there. The way, however, 
lay through warring tribes, and knowing, too, that 
the white men were of a nation not friendly to 
our own, we turned our canoes up stream and toiled 
against the current until we came once more to 
where portage, stream and lake would bring us 
home. 

“ And that was the end of our journey,” said 
Father Marquette; “ and yet not the end, for the 
message that we carried to the wilderness will not 
be lost. Two thousand years ago, on this night, 
some poor shepherds followed a star which led 
them to where in a manger lay the Prince of Peace. 
After them came the kings with homage and gifts, 
and both the lowly and the great bore the message 
of love and good will forth into the world. We 
are bearing it still into the far ends of the earth, 
and when the spring comes again, and my illness, 
as the good doctor here tells me, will depart from 
me, I promise you, my friends, to come to you in 
78 



MARQUETTE 


your village and teach you more about the message 
of the Star. But rest you now, for your journey 
on the morrow will be long.” 

Then the guests, wrapped in their blankets, 
slept on the floor before the fire, but Father Mar¬ 
quette lay on his couch and looked into the glow. 
And as he looked there came to him a vision: the 
walls of the cabin opened and the vast, lonely plain 
was no longer there. In its stead there arose a 
great city with towers higher than any in Laon, 
and as far as eye could reach, and farther still, 
stood house on house, stretched street after street, 
and the lights of the city were as the stars in the 
firmament. And the ice-bound river gave the city 
its name: Chicago; but the name of the plain it¬ 
self, dotted with cities and hamlets and stretching 
away into the shadows of night, was that of the 
Indians sleeping on the hearth — Illinois. 

And Father Marquette slept, too, while the stars 
stood out above the cabin and the moon shone 
white on the frosty wilderness. 


79 




MILLET AND HIS POOR FOLK 


There were nine little Millets and they lived 
in Normandy on a farm. Father and Mother 
worked in the fields but Granny staid at home and 
took care of the children. And a dear Granny 
she was; she could smooth pleasant dreams into a 
pillow, she could tell wonderful stories, her tisanes 
cured the worst colds, her cupboard always held 
some treat. But the little Millets had been born 
into a workday world; their playtime was soon 
over and one by one they left Granny’s care and 
went to work in the fields. Jean Francois was the 
next oldest, his turn came before long and proudest 
of boys was he the first time that he followed be¬ 
hind the plow. “ I am almost a man now,” 
thought he, and he bent his young back and gave 
his strength willingly to the task, for he meant to 
become a good farmer. Now to turn up the moist 
brown earth, to drop the seed into the furrows, to 
watch the field from sowing to harvest, to garner 
hay and grain, to swing the flail and to press out 
cider, all this does not mean an easy life but a 
useful and wholesome one and Jean Francois was 
tired but happy. 

Yes, and if it had not been for a certain habit 
of his, Jean Francois Millet would, no doubt, have 
turned out a prosperous farmer with a comfortable 
grange and well-filled barns, instead of a painter, 
80 



THE GLEANERS 
Millet 





































































































MILLET AND HIS POOR FOLK 


famous indeed, but very poor. But Jean Francois 
would draw. Thoughts came to him in orchard 
and field and when work was done or there came 
a holiday, he put them on paper. His father 
found him at it: 

“ Let me see what you have been doing,” said 
he, and Jean Francois brought out his sketches. 

They were done in black chalk and two of them 
were much better than the rest. One showed two 
shepherds singing and playing the flute under one 
of the orchard trees, the other was of a farm serv¬ 
ant bringing food to a beggar sitting outside the 
barn. Father Millet studied them for a while, 
then he said: 

“ There may be something in them and we’ll go 
to an artist and find out.” 

So on the next Fair day they set out for Cher¬ 
bourg, where the artist lived. 

“ Dear, dear,” said the latter, looking first at 
the sketches and then at Jean Francois, “Why 
have you waited so long? You were meant to be 
an artist and not a farmer and you must come 
here and be my pupil.” 

“ I guessed as much,” remarked Father Millet 
to himself. 

Then they walked back to the farm and told 
Mother and Granny what the artist had said, and 
the good women cried a little at the news that 
Jean Francois was going away. But they were 
proud of their boy and when they dried their tears 
they mended his clothes and packed his chest and 
gave him good advice and a nice lunch and Jean 
Francois departed for Cherbourg. How strange 
it felt to be in a city, to walk on paved streets, to 
81 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


see the foreign ships in the harbor, and so many 
houses and churches. As to the picture gallery, 
that was a place of wonder, and the library, too; 
indeed, there were many things to be learned in 
both and Jean Francois learned a few of them. 
And his teacher was pleased and allowed him to 
paint some of the drapery and hands in the great 
picture upon which he was engaged. 

By and by the young painter sold a picture of 
his own and it began to look as though Fame might 
some day peep into his modest studio. Then his 
father died and Jean Francois had to go back to 
the farm and take his place. But city life spoils 
a farmer; Jean Francois could no longer draw a 
straight furrow and had forgotten all about seeds 
and crops and things went badly. Mother and 
Granny shook their heads. 

“ Jean Francois,” said they, “ you must return 
to Cherbourg and your own work; your brothers 
are growing up and the farm will do better with¬ 
out you.” 

“ I have been expecting you,” said the teacher, 
when Jean Francois got back, “ and now I have 
news for you: the municipality is going to give you 
some money; I shall be able to add a little to it 
and you must go to Paris and study there.” 

To Paris, think of it! Jean Francois could 
hardly believe his ears and even after he was there 
he often asked himself, “ Is it really true? ” 

Still it was not pleasant in Paris. There was 
hardly enough to eat in the little inn where Jean 
Franqois was staying, no one spoke to him, and 
his fellow pupils in the studio laughed at his 
country ways. But Paris was wonderful, too; 

82 



MILLET AND HIS POOR FOLK 


there was the Louvre with all its paintings and 
statues; was ever place like it? And Jean Fran¬ 
cois might study there! He found a friend, too, 
and they took an attic together and lived in true 
artist fashion, feasting when a hamper arrived 
from the country or they sold a pot boiler, and 
fasting between times. As to the art students, 
they were not so bad once you came to know them; 
in fact, some of Jean Francois’ closest friendships 
were formed in the studio. 

However, the pleasant student days came to an 
end and the young artist went forth to win fame 
from an indifferent world. Genius in an attic! 
Paris is full of it; well, let us see what this young 
fellow can do. 

“ Pictures, yes; doesn’t paint badly, but what 
unpleasant subjects, nothing but work and poverty! 
We don’t mind poor people if they are amusing 
and fit the landscape prettily, but people who work 
so hard and look so tired and spent make you feel 
uncomfortable. And they are ugly too, and dirty; 
really this Millet must use some of the mud of his 
native village on his palette,” said Paris and 
smiled at its wit. 

But Jean Francois was plucky; Fortune might 
pass him by and Fame be slow in coming, but he 
knew his own mind and kept on painting his poor 
people. By and by he sold a picture or two and 
took a wife and came down from his attic, for you 
can’t very well keep house so high up. It was 
only two rooms that they lived in and the days of 
pot boilers were not yet over, but Jean Francois 
had painted his picture “ The Winnower ” and he 
knew it to be good; the spring sunshine came in at 
83 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


the window and the little finch was singing in its 
cage. 

“ How pleasant it is here,” said Millet’s friend 
Jacque who had come to make a call. 44 That pot 
of mignonette reminds me of the country, but what 
do you say to a sketching trip to where it grows ? 
I wtes told of a village which ends in * zon ’; it 
costs next to nothing to live there and it is full of 
studies; suppose we look it up.” 

So they went forth to seek the village. It was 
one of the many scattered through the forest and 
as they journeyed on they asked of the people 
whom they met: “ Do you know the village 
which ends in 4 zon? ’ ” But, 44 No; it is not here¬ 
abouts,” the people would reply. 

44 How strange,” said the two friends, but they 
did not give up the search. 

At last they met an old woodcutter, who 
scratched his head at the question: 44 I don’t know 

of any unless it’s Barbizon,” said he slowly. 

“But that’s the very place; how do we get 
there?” cried Jacque. 

“ It does not lie on the road,” said the wood¬ 
cutter ; 44 you must follow the little path here 
through the wood until you come to the cow gate 
and then you’ll find Barbizon.” 

Yes, there lay Barbizon beyond the cow gate, a 
straggling village with its houses all set along one 
street and the forest once more closing in behind 
its fields and meadows, and — 44 Just the place for 
me! ” cried both artists together, for there were 
the sheep which Jacque so loved to paint, and there 
too was a picture which reminded Jean Francois 
of the old farm and Granny. Three little chil- 
84 




MILLET AND HIS POOR FOLK 


dren on a cottage doorstep, waiting each its turn to 
be fed from the porringer in Granny’s lap — how 
many times he too had been one of such a group, 
and he turned his head again and again to get 
another glimpse of the pretty scene as he went on 
up the street. There was a poor little inn in 
Barbizon and here the artists, who were poor too, 
all of them, lived all that summer. When it be¬ 
gan to grow cold they thought of going back to 
the city, but Jean Francois could not tear himself 
away. 

“ Ah, but it will snow before long and the nights 
will be dreary and dark,” said the other artists. 
“ Think of cheerful Paris with its lights and 
crowds and gay shopwindows.” 

“ I am not afraid of snow, and long nights are 
fine for study,” said Jean Frangois. 

“ And it rains all spring and the mud is fright¬ 
ful.” 

“ Yes, but I’m a farm lad myself and can wear 
big boots; when you come back in the summer, I’ll 
tell you all about it.” 

“ Good-bye, then, until summer,” said the artists. 

So Barbizon became Millet’s home. He lived 
in one of the cottages, there was a shed which made 
a splendid studio, and he had a garden to dig in. 
The peasants went about their tasks and he 
watched them and made their labors famous. 
There was the sower; he was strong and lusty and 
he went up and down the field scattering seed. 
His figure set off boldly against the sky and his 
weather-beaten clothes blended well with the 
brown of the soil. The earth was still bleak and 
the wind blew chill, but the promise of spring was 
85 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


there and all of summer’s green and autumn’s gold 
lay in the sower’s gesture. 

The shepherdess, too, made a pretty picture 
Where she stood in the shelter of the trees, knitting 
as she watched her flock, for she must not be idle. 
On the sunny slope her sheep cropped the young 
grass and shepherdess and sheep and sun and 
shadow caught Millet’s eye as he walked there in 
the wood. Indeed, there were pictures in plenty 
all the year round at Barbizon if you only knew 
how to see them. 

The days grew warm and the sun beat down 
fiercely on the earth. It is hard work then to hoe 
out in the field, but if the potatoes are yours you 
do not mind it so much. But the “ Man with the 
Hoe ” that Millet saw could call no field his own; 
he was one of the poorest of Barbizon’s poor and 
all his days were spent in laboring for others. It 
had always been so and he did not question it; 
indeed, he was dull and never tried to think, and 
pray; why should he? The work was there to¬ 
day, to-morrow and every day; you stopped for 
a moment now and then to lean on your hoe for 
a little rest but you always went to work again. 

u People may not like this picture,” reflected 
Jean Francois as he was painting it, “ but I must 
go on with it even though I show that the fair 
earth is sometimes cruel.” 

About this time when the potato fields were 
purple in bloom, the artists from Paris came back 
again. Jean Francois was working in his garden 
as he did every morning. 

“ Whatl ” cried his friends, “ you have turned 
farmer? ” 


86 




MILLET AND HIS POOR FOLK 


“ Yes, indeed, but come in out of the sun,” and 
he led the way to the studio. But when they got 
inside there were all the pictures and sketches and 
they looked and looked and wondered. “ Yes,” 
said Jean Francois quietly, “ the country is a good 
place for work.” His friends thought so too and 
that autumn a number of them staid on in the 
village. 

Barbizon now became famous and so many art¬ 
ists came there to paint that you could hardly get 
about for all the easels in your path, and the little 
inn had to have a new sign and more rooms, and 
the kitchen fire never went out. As to the artists, 
they each found something new to paint; one liked 
the oaks and quiet pools deep in the forest, another 
had eyes for nothing but sheep, a third found 
beauty in the little towns and hamlets lying by 
wood and stream, and Jean Frangois kept on with 
his poor people and the story of their days. 

“ It was a little unkind of me,” said he one day, 
“ to make people feel so bad about their potatoes; 
a potato field is not always such a dismal place, 
indeed no; when autumn comes and the air grows 
just a trifle sharp and blue mists hang over the 
hills, then you take up your spade and dig in the 
earth for treasure, for if a good potato crop is not 
worth a pot of silver — why then I’m very much 
mistaken, that’s all.” 

With this he took up his brush and painted a 
picture of a potato harvest. The afternoon sun 
yet lingers over the field but in a little while the 
world will be dark and cold. Hark! the sound of 
bells is borne on the air: “The Angelus,” cry 
the farmer and his wife and they stop in their work 
87 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


and stand with bowed heads and folded hands. 
Plenty at their feet, a blessing overhead, are not 
these poor people rich? 

But the good farmer does more than rejoice in 
his crops and give thanks therefore. There is a 
custom that is kind, and as old as farming itself, 
and the farmer remembers and says to his reapers: 
“ Do not reap the field too closely; leave something 
for the gleaners.” 

And the reapers, binding the sheaves, drop a 
handful of ears here and another there, and the 
poor venture after them and glean their tiny 
sheaves and the farmer’s loaf is none the smaller 
for it but has in truth a better savor. 

There were three gleaners in the field that 
Millet saw, two were young and agile but the 
third, all stiff with age and toil, stooped slowly to 
the task. And people looked at the women in 
their faded garments, at the soft sky and the pale 
gold of grain and stubble and they cried: “ What 

a splendid picture,” for they were no longer afraid 
of Millet’s poor folk and talked about “ The 
Angelus,” “ The Sower,” “ The Man with the 
Hoe,” as though they had always thought them 
masterpieces. 

And Fame came and money too, and Paris 
beckoned, but Jean Francois Millet would not 
leave Barbizon and there he dwelt and labored all 
his days, the farm lad who became a great painter 
but never forgot the farm. 


88 




ABE 


All along the road little Abe had wondered 
what the new home would be like and Sally had 
tried to help him guess. Dad said that it would 
be much better than the old home, and now the 
last stream was forded, the last hill was climbed, 
and the wagon entered the wood. There was the 
house; that is, it was not quite a house; it had no 
doors or windows and only three walls. “ We’ll 
be right comfortable here until the new house is 
done,” said Dad. Mother said nothing but set 
about baking a hoe cake, for they were all hungry. 

The new home was in the woods and the trees 
had to come down to make way for the fields. 
Some of them went into the new house, some were 
cut up into firewood, and with a big roaring fire 
the camp house was not so bad unless it rained or 
snowed. Sometimes in the night Abe would wake 
to see two fierce green eyes gleaming out of the 
darkness, but when he screamed the vision always 
vanished away. When spring came the house was 
ready for the family to move in; to be sure, there 
were no sashes in the window openings and there 
was no door, but Dad said he would put them in 
later. 

“ Well, it’s better than the camp,” thought Abe 
as he climbed up the strips nailed against the wall 
and tumbled into his bed of leaves in the loft; “ in- 
89 


OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


deed, it’s much better, for the wild things cannot 
look in upon you here.” 

The farm did not get on very fast and the fields 
of corn, wheat and potatoes took much time and 
were, oh, so small. Dad began to shake his head. 

“ I don’t believe that this is such a good place 
after all,” said he, “ and they tell me that there 
are better farms farther west,” but Mother did 
not like to hear him talk this way. 

But now the days grew hot and the forest 
swamps sent out evil vapors and sickness fell on 
the settlers round about. Little Dennis, who was 
now living in the camp house, lost his father and 
mother and came to live with Abe and Sally. And 
then the children’s own good gentle mother fell 
ill and after a while, she, too, was laid under a 
little mound beneath the trees. Then Sally and 
Abe and Dennis grew ragged and wretched, for 
Dad did not know how to care for them. He 
looked at them and shook his head; poor Dad, he 
was always shaking his head. 

“ Children,” said he, “ I am going away for a 
while. You boys must take care of the pigs and 
cows and Sally must bake hoe cake and potatoes. 
When I come back I shall bring you a new 
mother,” and he mounted his horse and rode 
away. 

Every day the children looked up the wood path 
but nothing stirred among the trees. 

“ But hark,” cried Abe, “ do you hear the 
horses? Many horses.” 

u And wheels,” said Sally, and sure enough four 
horses came out of the wood and a wagon piled 
high with wonders; indeed, only Santa Claus’s 
90 




ABE 


sleigh could have held so many things. And down 
from the wagon stepped the new mother who 
owned all these riches, and after her came three 
children, Sarah, Tilda and John; they stood in a 
row and looked at their new brother and sister. 
Oh, dear, Sarah and Tilda and John were plump 
and red cheeked and they wore shoes and their 
clothes looked uncomfortably whole; there wasn’t 
a tear nor a patch about them. Sally and Abe and 
Dennis felt ashamed and tried to hide behind each 
other, but the new mother drew them forth and 
kissed them. 

The new mother was the real fairy godmother 
kind that can turn pumpkins into coaches, and the 
way she changed the poor little cabin and made it 
into a home was nothing short of magic. 

“ Thomas Lincoln,” said she to Dad, “ you are 
a carpenter, so please set about at once to nail to¬ 
gether a door and put in some windows. And this 
earth floor will never do, we must have one of 
wood.” 

And when it was all done Dad looked at his 
work with pride and the children stood and rubbed 
their eyes, for the treasures of the wagon were 
set all about. 

“ A real table,” cried they, “ and store chairs,” 
and could there be such a bed? But when it came 
to the bureau they were speechless. It was all of 
shiny wood and had a still more shiny top in which 
you could see your face much better even than in 
the brook. 

“ It’s a mirror,” said Tilda proudly, but the 
wood children believed it to be magic. 

The new mother went to the bureau and took 
91 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


clothes therefrom and she rubbed and scrubbed 
Sally and Abe and Dennis until they shone like the 
bureau and she clad them in warm whole gar¬ 
ments, and she burned up the sleeping mats and 
the dried leaves and put them to sleep in soft beds; 
really, it was just like in a fairytale. 

Yes, she was a good mother and she had fairy 
gifts, but even these were of no avail when it came 
to fighting the demon Poverty who laid his clutches 
upon them all. For Dad was poor and whether 
he worked in the fields or did carpenter work it 
was all he could do to feed so many hungry mouths. 
Of course the children had their share of labor, it 
was everyone’s portion in that new land, but they 
grew comfortably plump, all but Abe, who was oh, 
so thin. “ He needs to be fed up,” said the new 
mother, and she tried her best.. But Abe was dif¬ 
ferent, instead of growing nice and round he be¬ 
gan to shoot up and up until he was a young giant 
with long arms and legs and big hands and feet. 
And his skin was brown and leathery and his mouth 
was large and his ears — dear, dear, how could 
any boy be so ugly! 

“ Ugly? ” His mother looked at him and be¬ 
ing a clever woman she guessed that the ugly 
duckling was most likely a swan. She watched 
him trying to read a book, she heard him play at 
being preacher, and she said: “Abe must go to 
school.” 

“ No, indeed,” cried Dad, u that boy is lazy 
enough now; instead of shucking corn he stands 
around and makes speeches to the stalks; book 
learning won’t help him plow or saw planks.” 

“ I’m not so sure of that,” said mother, u but 
92 



ABE 


Abe must go to school and she kept on saying 
it until Dad at last gave in. 

“ But if there’s any work to be done on the 
farm, Abe must stay home and help,” said he. 

The schoolhouse was a rude cabin; the floor was 
of earth, the windows were filled in with the oiled 
leaves of old copybooks. Lazy pupils could not 
learn much there for the teacher had little to give, 
but Abe needed only a sign to find the way him¬ 
self, and this was well, for never had the farm 
work been so exacting as now when he wanted to 
go to school. Oh, well, you can repeat things 
over to yourself while you work and orations 
sound very well out under the sky. 

“ Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your 
ears! ” shouted Abe to John and the corn stalks, 
but Dad came up. 

u Get to work, you idle boy,” cried he angrily; 
“ what do you expect to be when you grow up, I 
should like to know? ” 

“ President,” grinned Abe as he started to hoe 
with vigor. 

“ I’ll take away that life of Washington that 
you are reading,” growled Dad, but Abe felt sure 
that nobody could guess where it lay hidden in a 
crack in the wall. 

Abe and John came home tired and hungry; 
John lingered over his supper but Abe took a piece 
of corn bread and a book and curled himself up on 
a settle by the fire. 

“ Say, Abe,” cried John, “ I thought you were 
going down to the village store to-night?” but 
Abe did not hear. 

“ Abe’s reading again,” lamented Tilda. 

93 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


“ Yes, and he promised to tell us more about 
Robinson Crusoe,” added Sally, but Mother said 
sharply: 

“ Leave him alone; he wants to study.” 

It was arithmetic this time and Abe was doing 
problems; he worked them on the wooden shovel 
and he whittled them off and tried others, and he 
worked and worked — the family were all asleep, 
John had long since come back from the store and 
crept up to the loft, but Abe still worked on in the 
firelight. 

“This is not a good farm; I always said so,” 
declared Dad. “ And now we are going to a bet¬ 
ter one out in Illinois where you really can see 
things grow.” So once again the family posses¬ 
sions were loaded on a couple of wagons and forth 
fared the Lincolns and some of the Hanks in 
search of the blue flower which they could not find 
near home. The oxen plodded over the bad 
roads, mud clogged the wheels, the streams were 
hard to ford. Abe drove and brought them safely 
to their journey’s end. He helped rear the house 
and split rails for the fences, then he said good¬ 
bye to farm life forever, for the time had come 
when he must leave home and seek his fortunes 
elsewhere. 

On a bluff above the river lay the town of New 
Salem. It had but one street and everybody knew 
everybody else. 

“ This is going to be a great town,” said the 
inhabitants, “ for our boats can carry things up 
and down the river and all the country round 
about must trade with us.” 

Abe was clerk in the general store and had to 
94 



ABE 


remember many things, for you might expect to 
find anything you wanted there; shoes or nails, 
sugar or guns, dishes, pins, plows or calico. But 
no matter what it was, Abe could alwiays put his 
hand right upon it. At night he slept under the 
counter and both day and night he always found 
time to study. New Salem knew about it of course 
and talked the matter over. 

“ Grammar,” said the good people; “ what does 
Abe Lincoln want with that? Help him with his 
speeches, will it? Pshaw, he tells a good enough 
story without it. And law! Whoever heard 
the like ? ” 

New Salem went about with head-shakings and 
looked with awe at ugly Abe sitting book in hand 
under the tree before the door or pushing aside 
a lot of papers to clear the counter for a sale. 
But Abe only laughed and told more new stories 
and he helped his friends settle their disputes and 
drew up deeds for them and they thought it a 
very fine thing to get a lawyer’s advice for noth¬ 
ing. Abe was as ugly as ever, he was poor, the 
upward climb was steep and thorny and the pleas¬ 
ures of life were not in his path, but he would not 
return to the farm. 

“ I must follow my star,” said he to himself; 
“ it burns red sometimes and dread, yet what can 
I do but follow? ” 

But he never told New Salem of his star; he 
told it funny stories instead and smoothed out its 
law troubles and sold it calico and sugar. All the 
while, however, Abe was rising in the world, from 
clerk he became storekeeper and he learned more 
grammar and more law from day to day, and 
95 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


every time he made a speech people came from far 
and near to hear him. 

“ Ah,” said New Salem, “ our Abe knows a 
thing or two; let us send him to the state capital 
and have him help make the laws for Illinois.” 

And, sure enough, when election time came this 
high honor fell to Abe. But when he set out for 
the capital he had to borrow a horse and money 
for a suit of clothes, for a lawmaker may be ugly 
but he must make a proper appearance. 

“ Yes,” thought Abe as he rode along, “ honors 
have to be paid for and they sit heavily on a poor 
man; yet who would decline them? ” 

Riches did not come to Abe in the capital but 
much fame and a modest home, and best of all, he 
now had a real law office; oh, yes, indeed, he was 
proud of that. But this was not all; Abe became 
a congressman and went to Washington, not on a 
borrowed horse this time, and with money enough 
of his own to buy a coat. 

“Think of it,” said New Salem at the news; 
“ Abe Lincoln lives in Washington now and walks 
up the steps to the Capitol every day. He used 
to sit right out here under this tree reading his law 
books and we laughed at him,” and all the fathers 
in the town made up their minds to buy “ Black- 
stone’s Commentaries ” for their sons. 

And there came a day when New Salem won¬ 
dered even more and when Abraham Lincoln’s 
name was in every one’s mouth. He had won the 
highest honor his country can give; he was made 
its President. 

“ Ah,” said New Salem, “ we all knew him here 
and we feel proud of it.” 

96 



ABE 


“ Who would have thought it? ” said Dad, but 
Mother answered. 

“ I am not at all surprised.” 

Then she cried a little. “ Poor boy, poor boy,” 
said she; “ I fear that your days will be full of 
trouble.” 

Yes, trouble and a tragic end awaited him, but 
also enduring fame and the love of a nation to 
whom no name has a dearer sound than that of 
Abraham Lincoln. 


97 




ST. MARK’S SHRINE 


When the shipmasters and captains came back 
from their voyages and told of the wonders they 
had seen, the stay-at-homes opened eyes and ears 
and marveled, for life in Venice was still most 
plain and simple. But the sea was already begin¬ 
ning to lay her pearls at the feet of the young 
republic and the bearded mariners never came 
home empty handed, while the Doge, sitting in 
state in his golden robes and jeweled corno, 
dreamed of a wonder that must come to Venice. 
Did he dream it aloud? — the Doge was a mighty 
man and his very thoughts obeyed him — for lo, 
on a day, there sailed in a ship bearing in its hold 
a treasure, not gems this time, nor marbles; no, 
these were as dross beside it; and they came, the 
good people of Venice, and rejoiced for here was 
the wonder, the body of their saint and protector, 
even Saint Mark himself, borne away from his 
tomb in Alexandria. How won? By gold? By 
artifice? Oh, the merchants — for they were but 
two simple merchants that had done this thing — 
the merchants had a tale to tell; strange enough 
it was and full of miracle and mystery, and the 
Doge, sitting in state, with senators and populace 
round about, heard and smiled and marveled with 
the rest. 

Then spake the Doge: “ This happy event cer- 

98 



ST. MARK’S —VENICE 
Central Arch of Fagade 



















































ST. MARK’S SHRINE 


tainly portends good. Let us therefore seek to 
enshrine our Saint worthily and build for him a 
church that people shall come from far off lands 
to see.” 

And they began the church, but builders and 
craftsmen were there none in all Italy meet for 
such a task, so they brought them in from Byzan¬ 
tium and the East, workers in stone and mosaic 
and builders who could raise domes and arches. 
This first church was not large, for there was not 
much space to put it in and the great square had 
not yet come to be. Safety the islands could give 
and a footing, but space — man had to win that 
by force from the sea. Humble, indeed, had been 
the beginning of the poor little islands in the 
lagunes. Earth from the mountain farmer’s field 
and the wild goat’s pasture had helped in their 
making. The spring freshets in their yearly en¬ 
deavor to level the eternal Alps, brought down 
rocks and clods in their headlong course until the 
languor of the plain overcame them and they left 
their burden among the rushes of the sea marshes. 

And the islands grew and men took refuge there. 
They drained the marshes, sank piles beneath the 
waves, reared their dwellings thereon and waxed 
strong, growing into a city, into Venice, not yet 
the Sea Queen, but with her young hand already 
reaching for the scepter. 

And now the fine new church was going up. 
But the builders did not begin with the walls; no, 
that was not the Byzantine way of church build¬ 
ing. They thought first of the columns and the 
Doge took them to where lay a number of splen¬ 
did marble shafts and capitals. 

99 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


“ These came from the old Greek temples in 
Sicily,” said he; “ I brought them from there long 
a g°.” 

“ Just what we need,” cried the builders in de¬ 
light and they measured the columns and counted 
them. There were enough to form two rows the 
length of the church and from their height the 
builders planned that of the walls. These they 
now built round about of brick, rounded off one 
end to form the apse, set up the columns so as to 
divide the central space, or nave, from the aisles, 
spanned the capitals with low round arches, cov¬ 
ered it all with a flat wooden roof, and there was 
Saint Mark’s church. But it was not yet worthy 
to receive him, far from it! The outside might, 
indeed, remain as it was, of brick laid in sober pat¬ 
terns and with here and there a marble ornament, 
but the inside — ah, that was a different matter, 
and the many little windows under the roof were 
meant to light up the figures of angels, saints and 
holy persons which the craftsmen now set on apse 
and upper walls. Bits of colored glass and marble 
they put together, and, lo, the great figures, in 
robes of blue and red and purple, gazed calm eyed 
and majestic from out the splendor of their golden 
background. And the lower walls were sheathed 
in marble, creamy white, veined with rose and 
green and blending into patterns, and when the 
floor, too, was laid of marble work, smooth and 
hard and many colored, then, indeed, Saint Mark 
might enter his church. 

He rested well within for more than a hundred 
years, the good Evangelist, the while his winged 
lion guarded Venice. But there came a time when 
100 



ST. MARK’S SHRINE 


an unworthy Doge sat in the chair of state and 
the people rose up in wrath against him. He tried 
to hide from them behind his palace walls, but: 

“ Smoke him out! Smoke him out! ” cried the 
populace and they ran with flaming torches and 
fired the palace. The Doge came out and was 
slain, but the angry flames leaped higher and 
higher and burning brands fell upon Saint Mark’s 
church. 

“ Put it out! Put it out! ” shouted the people, 
but no one could do that; the fire was all too fierce. 
Yes, and there they stood, the next day, among 
the ruins and looked upon what they had done. 

“ Our good Saint Mark, what has become of 
him? ” they wailed. 

Then said the new Doge — there always had to 
be a Doge, you know —“ Cease your regrets, peo¬ 
ple of Venice; Saint Mark is safe and his church 
shall rise again, more beautiful than before; all 
my fortune do I give unto it.” 

Then again workers and craftsmen were called 
in from the East. The chief builder was lame. 
Said he to the Doge: “ Fair indeed shall be your 

church and my best work will I put into it, do you 
but promise this to me; to let my figure stand in 
stone within, to my credit and renown, so that 
people through all time may say: ‘ Behold, ’twas 
he, that built it.’ ” 

The Doge gave his promise, but when the church 
was finished, he shook his head: “How would 
this lame architect look among all these noble and 
splendid figures? No, let him be put outside, in 
a corner, where his presence may not offend.” It 
was done as the Doge decreed, and the figure of a 
101 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


cripple, leaning on crutches and biting his fingers 
in anger, is still pointed out in the porch as that of 
the lame architect. 

Many parts of the old church had been saved 
and set up in the new, the priceless old columns 
were nearly all there and some of the old mosaics, 
and Saint Mark was once more back in his tomb 
after something of an adventure. He had been so 
carefully hidden after the fire that for a time he 
seemed lost altogether and it had required a 
miracle on his part to help find him. 

For a while the Venetians still regarded their 
church with awe and pride, but they were fast 
growing rich, and the Doge, when he went out in 
his barge for a ride on the Grand Canal, smiled 
proudly at sight of the new marble palaces, each 
more splendid than the one before, that on either 
bank were crowding the modest dwellings of the 
early days. The young trees of the little gardens 
were already peeping over the walls, and along 
the white arcades hastened Moorish slaves in gay 
attire, attending their lords and ladies down the 
landing steps into the gondolas and barges waiting 
there; life in Venice was no longer plain. 

But other cities in Italy were also growing 
strong and the art which was to make them famous 
was having its beginning and they of Venice heard 
with amaze of the wonderful cathedrals going up 
in Pisa and in Florence. 

“This will never do!” cried the Venetians; 
“ we have emperors and popes visiting here, and 
indeed, our church is too small. Let us set about 
enlarging it at once.” All Venice agreed to this 
and for the third time the East was called upon 
102 



ST. MARK’S SHRINE 


for a builder, for Venice still had no artists of her 
own. 

The church was to be made larger, yet there was 
no space to do it in. “ Aha,” thought the archi¬ 
tect, “ here’s where I’ll show what I can do.” 
Then he said to the Doge; “Longer, no; that 
would spoil the square and the palace, but wider 
— yes; we can do that by clearing things away on 
either side, the north wing of the palace on this 
and the small ancient church on the other.” 

The Doge at first shook his head over all this 
tearing down, but as nobody could suggest any¬ 
thing better, it was done according to the archi¬ 
tect’s desire. He, being a Greek, of course built 
after the Eastern fashion, so that Saint Mark’s 
church took on the form of a Greek cross, in which 
all the arms are of equal length. This part of 
the task did not perplex the architect, he set up the 
transepts, or side arms, in the cleared spaces and 
the thing was done; but his builder’s pride centered 
in the domes, five of them, with which he crowned 
his work. These domes were not the lofty, space- 
defying affairs the Italian architects were later to 
erect, but were raised on supports, called penden- 
tives, quite in the ancient manner, but they were 
domes for all that, adding space and dignity to the 
church, and beauty too, for the mosaic workers 
made them into luminous globes thronged with 
saints in golden splendor. 

In front of the church there was, of course, a 
porch. Here gathered the penitents and other 
worshipers, who for some cause were not deemed 
worthy to be received within, but yet might from 
afar have part in the devotions. This porch the 
103 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


builder extended and carried around the sides to 
meet the transepts and if the church wasn’t large 
enough now, the Venetians just wanted to have 
somebody say so. Indeed their hearts swelled 
with pride every time they stood before it and 
gazed upon the five arched doorways. Florence 
and Pisa might have their cathedrals and welcome, 
Venice had her Saint Mark’s. 

But it was not architects and craftsmen alone 
who built Saint Mark’s church, many good Vene¬ 
tians also had a hand in it, for to help in its adorn¬ 
ment now became the duty of every citizen. No 
ship was expected to return to port without some 
tribute, every ambassador, every merchant had his 
mind on it. “ Buy, beg, or — steal,” ordered the 
Doge, “ but let us have something.” 

As to that, Venice had but to ask to have, such 
power was hers and such might. A hundred cities 
sued for the favor of the proud republic and the 
winged lion waxed strong on conquest and on spoil. 
He sat on his column in the square and saw rich 
booty brought in. 

The builders sometimes looked surprised at 
sight of some of their strange material but 
they always said: “ Yes, it’s just what we need. 
These great pillars are most ancient; see, there 
are inscriptions in strange characters upon them. 
These we shall set up inside, but these others, the 
slender green shafts, must have white capitals and 
go in groups about the doors. Doors, too. Yes, 
we need more doors. Here are some of bronze; 
but look, how different they are from the new ones 
we have just been casting. These are of wood, 
overlaid with bronze, and delicate silver work 
104 






i i 

;->rag 

} - 
i : 


9 


BRONZE HORSES 

St. Mark’s — Venice 
















ST. MARK’S SHRINE 


marks the patterns; those ancients certainly were 
clever people.” 

Sometimes the shipmasters brought in gold and 
uncut gems. These the goldsmiths took — there 
were skilled gold workers in those days — and 
wrought into chalices, all gold and enamel set with 
pearls and red and green stones; or cases and 
shrines to hold sacred relics; and they restored 
and made more splendid the great golden altar 
front, which had come from Byzantium long ago, 
a rare piece of work with many figures in delicate 
enamel upon it. 

And treasures kept pouring in and were set on 
walls, on floor, in shrines, until before long there 
was scarcely a stone in Saint Mark’s without its 
history. All this, to be sure, took years — many 
of them; but there was the joy of seeing things 
grow and beauties unfold one by one like so many 
lovely flowers and the light and brightness of the 
inside creep out little by little and shine on the 
sober front. 

“ We have made the beginning with the green 
columns about the doors, let us keep on,” said the 
Venetians. 

Of course they covered the bricks with marble 
— this was to be expected in marble Venice — but 
they added pinnacles and galleries and set statues 
there. Over the doors, in the course of time, ap¬ 
peared pictures in mosaic, and high over the chief 
door throned the winged lion with his book 
against a background of blue enamel studded with 
gold stars. And then the horses came to keep 
him company. There were four of them, of 
bronze, and, oh, what an exciting day when the 
105 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


ship brought them in. Horses in Venice! Why, 
griffins and unicorns would not have seemed more 
strange, and many were the eyes in the sea city 
that now beheld for the first time forms such as 
these. Fine horses they were and great works of 
art and nothing in Venice was as old as they. 
Much of the world had they seen too, nor were 
their wanderings yet quite over. To Venice they 
came as spoil from Byzantium, where they had 
adorned the great hippodrome; but Byzantium’s 
emperor, in his time had borne them in triumph 
to his city, which he hoped with the beauties of 
fallen and humbled Greece to make into the rival 
and the more than peer of Rome. And the horses 
arched their proud necks and pawed the air before 
the lion of Saint Mark as they had done in the 
hippodrome and in the long years before, ere their 
maker’s name had been forgotten and their home 
become a mystery. Venice made their unbridled 
pride the symbol of her own and for six centuries 
the salt sea was fresh in their nostrils. Then came 
a day when the horses left their proud height and 
fared as prisoners over the sea to France to grace 
the triumphs of Napoleon. For eighteen years 
they stood under the pale sky of the northern 
capital, yoked to the conqueror’s triumphal chariot, 
and Napoleon felt the thrill of pride every time 
he thought of how the wonders of antiquity were 
being linked to his new fame. For eighteen years 
the lion of Saint Mark mourned for his lost com¬ 
panions, but one day they returned; for the bold 
Corsican’s empire tottered and fell as once had 
done the Empire of the East and when this came 
about, the people of Venice once again went forth 
106 



ST. MARK’S SHRINE 


to meet the ship bearing in the four bronze horses 
and once again they set them up in their place of 
honor above the church door. 

Was it any wonder that the old Venetians should 
love their church when they put so much of their 
life into it? In the great square of Saint Mark, 
the square which, too, had been growing and 
widening and stretching with the fortunes of the 
republic, here under the shadow of Saint Mark’s 
lion, all Venice came to play its part. Fairs were 
held here and processions; here crusaders waited 
to take ship for the Holy Land; artists here dis¬ 
played their work — Venice had artists now to 
add to her fame — the great bell tower rose above 
the church, a beacon to the mariner and the guard¬ 
ian of the city, for while the watchman on its top 
sounded his half hourly bell, all was well with 
Venice; in their loggia beneath the tower the pro¬ 
curators met in solemn council; great lords and 
beggars gathered here; Moors and Turks and fair 
bearded merchants from beyond the Alps all 
sought the square. At times the sea slipped in 
over the pavement on a friendly visit, lapped the 
steps of the church and the Doges’ palace and then 
ran out again, leaving behind seaweed and shells 
and pearls, perhaps, for Venice was the sea’s dear 
spouse and yearly did the Doge renew the bond, 
when he went out in his great barge of state and 
cast the symbolic ring into the waves. 

There is no longer any Doge in Venice and the 
glory of the great republic is a thing of the past. 
It is a dream city over which the lion broods; for 
though the palaces and gardens are there still, the 
gay lords and ladies and their Moorish slaves and 
107 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


pages linger only as frescoes on the walls. The 
great bell tower, as though weary of watching for 
the argosies that never come, crumbled and fell 
all in a heap, but Venice could not do without its 
tower and it was built up again, just as before, 
with its golden angel atop, and the gray and rose 
pigeons once more flutter about its mighty shaft. 
Saint Mark’s church still shines with marbles and 
with gold, and time has softened and made it more 
lovely than when it was new; the lion still fronts 
his background of blue and stars and the horses 
paw the air and snuff the salt sea air. 

And surely the prophecy of the good old Doge 
has come true, for people come from far off lands 
to see the church wherein sleeps the good Saint 
Mark. 


108 




FAIRYTALE AND THE BROTHERS 
GRIMM 


Fairytale stepped into the room. It was 
warm and cosy; dark pictures hung on the walls, 
there were many books and on the window-sill 
stood blooming plants: outside it was snowing. 

Wilhelm Grimm looked up; he had not heard 
Fairytale come in but he knew she was there. 

“ Oh, but—” said he, “I am very busy just 
now.” 

“ Well then, I’ll go visit Jacob,” pouted Fairy¬ 
tale, starting for the next room. 

“ No, no, don’t do that,” exclaimed Wilhelm in 
alarm. “Jacob is even more busy than I; he is 
working on his grammar. It is a learned and 
serious piece of work and he must not be disturbed. 
You had better stay here.” 

“ Yes, I should like to,” said Fairytale as she 
snuggled down in the big arm chair. “ It is so 
pleasant here,” she went on. “ The pink prim¬ 
roses called to me from the window, that’s why I 
came.” 

“ They are birthday flowers,” smiled Wilhelm; 
“ mine was the other day and I found a pot of them 
in the window, as I do every year. Jacob loves 
heliotrope, but I think there’s nothing sweeter than 
primroses.” 

“ They do look like a bit of spring,” mused 
Fairytale. “ And look, how it is snowing outside. 

109 


OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


Your window is a little fairytale in itself.” 

“ Yes,” said Wilhelm softly, “ it reminds me of 
the little house in the wintry wood and of the little 
girl that swept the snow from before the door and 
found red, ripe strawberries there. I put that tale 
into the book the other day.” 

“ Oh,” said Fairytale with a little shiver, 
“ please, don’t talk of the wood in winter. It is 
so cold and drear and the snow is deep; all the 
wild things hide in hollow trees and caves and I 
am all alone. I slip out then and watch the 
friendly blue smoke curl up from the chimneys of 
the little thatched huts on the forest’s edge. Ah, 
and better still, I steal within and sit in the chimney 
corner like Cinderella, with my feet in the cosy 
warm ashes. You have her in the book too, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ Yes, to be sure. My brother Jacob, who is so 
very learned and clever, says that she is oldest 
of fairy children and that she was a princess in 
far off eastern lands before she became a cinder 
wench and sat by the northern fireside.” 

“ He is right,” said Fairytale with a wise nod; 
“ and she never forgot, and the firelight comforted 
her and showed her pictures of the things that 
had been until the magic slipper made them all 
come true again.” 

They sat quite still, Wilhelm and Fairytale, as 
though they heard some faint, faraway voice. 
The little flames in the white stove crackled and 
the wind sang in the chimney. Fairytale gave a 
little sigh of content and Wilhelm said to himself: 
“ It is indeed strange, how old some of the pretty 
tales are and how many tongues they speak. Over 
110 



BROTHERS GRIMM 


the border in other lands and even beyond seas 
Little Red Ridinghood meets the same wolf that 
lurks in her path here at home and Sleeping 
Beauty’s enchanted castle lies hidden in all lands 
where roses grow.” 

Then to Fairytale he said: “ Jacob and I have 
gathered many of the old tales but many are still 
wanting; surely you have some to tell me.” 

“ Oh,” cried Fairytale, “ indeed I have; but not 
here in a study among all the learned books. And 
the inkstand and the pens frighten me. No, 
Wilhelm, you must go to the fairytale woman in 
the little hut under the hill. She knows all of 
mine and has the gift of telling them. And I shall 
be there whenever you come.” 

Jacob Grimm looked into the room: “Why 
Wilhelm,” he cried, “ you are^itting in the dark.” 
And sure enough, it was time to light the lamp. 
But Fairytale was gone. 

“ Let us go to the fairytale woman,” said 
Wilhelm Grimm to his brother Jacob. So they 
went out under the old gateway beside which stood 
the oak and where the little Savoyard played his 
hurdy gurdy. They crossed the square where the 
soldiers came to drill and then walked along the 
broad avenue which leads to the castle and all the 
little villages by the way. The castle showed far 
off through the trees. 

“ Dear, dear,” said Jacob with a smile, “ every 
time I see it I think of the time that merry King 
Jerome lived up there and I was his librarian. 
What an easy task was mine! The King never 
asked for a book and nobody else was permitted to 
have any, so there I sat with them all about me 
111 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


and could study and write to heart’s content. It 
did not last long however, and when Jerome lost 
his kingdom all the books went with him to Paris.” 

“ Yes, but you were sent after to bring them 
back,” cried Wilhelm. 

“ To be sure I was,” laughed Jacob. “ No¬ 
body knew them better than I and so here they 
are all back again on their old shelves.” 

Wilhelm nodded his head and smiled for he was 
a librarian too and loved books, but Jacob, lost 
in thought, now began to walk very fast. He did 
this sometimes when he forgot that his brother 
was not so strong as he and must walk slowly. 

“ Hold, hold? ” cried Wilhelm; “ you are going 
too far, Jacob; the fairytale woman lives in a hut 
and not in the castle; we turn down here.” 

The fairytale woman was very poor and the 
war had brought sorrow and six orphans into her 
hut. But Fairytale would come and put her arms 
about the old dame’s neck and lay her golden head 
against her cheek. Then the hut would become 
splendid and the children might forget their torn 
shoes and the smallness of the loaves when 
Granny began: “ Once upon a time.” 

The fairytale woman’s hut might have be¬ 
longed to Little Red Ridinghood’s Granny; there 
was the bed in the wall, there stood the wooden 
chairs and the painted chest, and in the glass cup¬ 
board were the dishes. The old woman sat in her 
armchair beside the stove and she began: 

“ Once upon a time there was a tailor and he 
had a son who was so big and strong that his 
father did not know what to do with him. He 
could not be taught a trade because he shattered 
112 




BROTHERS GRIMM 


everything that was put into his hands and he was 
so lazy withal that he would rather sleep than 
eat. 

“ ‘ Son/ said the father at length, ‘lama poor 
man and can no longer support you; go forth into 
the world and seek your fortune. Over beyond 
the mountain lies Lazyman’s Town; if the people 
there once behold you they will make you their 
King.’ But he only said this to get rid of him. 

“ ‘ Good,’ said Lazykins and he journeyed on 
until he came to the mountain. Up one side he 
went and down the other, sleeping much by the 
way and of every one that he met he inquired the 
road to Lazyman’s Town, but nobody could tell 
him. 

“ By and by he came to a town with high walls 
all about it. The sun was hot and Lazykins tired, 
so he sat down in the shady gateway to rest. But 
he was so big that he filled it all up and nobody 
could either enter or leave the town. The towns¬ 
people asked him to go away but he only laughed 
at them. Then they brought great stones and 
cast them upon him, but he said: ‘ The gnats are 
quite bad this year,’ and brushed them aside. 
Next they came with a millstone which they 
dropped from above on his head but it slipped 
down over his ears to his shoulders and he said: 
‘ Thanks for the pretty collar.’ At last they 
brought the heavy church bell and hoped to crush 
him beneath it, but it lodged on his head quite 
jauntily and he clapped his hands and cried: 
‘ What a dear little cap! I have always wanted 
one but my father was too poor to buy it for me.’ 

“ ‘ We cannot get rid of him thus,’ thought the 
113 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


towns people, ‘ but there is still another way.’ 
Then they said: ‘ Lazykins, do you see the castle 
up yonder on the hill? The King’s daughter lives 
there but she is bewitched and her father has 
promised her hand to him who will deliver her 
from her enchantment. And after he shall inherit 
the kingdom.’ 

44 Then Lazykins bethought him that he was 
seeking a kingdom, so he came out from under the 
gateway and climbed the hill to the castle. At 
the door he was met by a fierce lion who rolled 
his eyes and roared aloud, but Lazykins, all un¬ 
dismayed, lifted his stout oak stick and laid him 
low. Then he walked on and on through a hun¬ 
dred empty rooms until he came at last to the 
tower chamber wherein sat the Princess with her 
gray cat Lisa. And when he came in thus with 
his millstone collar and his bell cap in his hand, 
the gray cat arched her back and spat and the 
Princess was sore afraid. But she put on a bold 
manner and cried angrily, 4 Where was my lion 
porter, that you dared enter here? ’ 

44 4 I saw no lion,’ replied Lazykins, 4 but at the 
door a little yellow dog tried to bite me and I 
tapped him with my stick.’ 

44 At these words the Princess turned pale, but 
the gray cat rubbed against her, so she said 
sweetly, 4 Will you not stay here and be my porter 
and guard my gate? ’ 

44 And Lazykins said, 4 Yes,’ for the Princess 
was very beautiful. 

44 But that night, for once, Lazykins could not 
sleep, and he heard the sound of voices through 
the wall. 4 What shall I do, Lisa? ’ the Princess 
114 




BROTHERS GRIMM 


was saying; ‘my spells will not work; he is too 
strong.’ ‘ Bid him saddle and bridle your black 
horse,’ replied the cat; ‘ he does not know that he 
must cover the creature’s eyes before he slips on 
the bit, and at sight of the golden bridle it will 
blow fire from its nostrils and burn him up.’ 

“ But in the morning Lazykins went to the 
stable and covered up the horse’s eyes. And he 
took the silver bridle and not the golden, and when 
he had put it on and the saddle also, the black 
horse was no longer there but a gentle white pal¬ 
frey stood in its place. When the Princess saw 
the palfrey she swooned away, but the gray cat 
purred into her ear and she came to and dis¬ 
sembled, saying it was the heat that turned her 
faint. 

“ But that night Lazykins again heard the voices 
through the wall. ‘ What shall I do? ’ cried the 
Princess, and the cat replied, ‘ Send for the en¬ 
chanter; he will know what to do.’ So the Prin¬ 
cess sent for the enchanter, but Lazykins watched 
for him from the wall. And when he heard him 
knock at the door, he leaned far over and dropped 
the millstone right on his head. And that was 
the end of the enchanter. 

“ This time the Princess took to her bed and 
would not be comforted. ‘ Alas! ’ said she in the 
night, to Lisa, the cat, ‘the enchanter is dead; 
what will become of us?’ ‘Never fear, Prin¬ 
cess,’ the cat made answer, ‘ Lazykins cannot raise 
the enchantment. How is he to know that he must 
pull out the seven white hairs that are in my tail 
and burn them in the fire to bring it about? ’ 

“ But the next day Lazykins caught up the gray 
115 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


cat as she was sleeping by the fire and he pulled 
out the seven white hairs and threw them into the 
flames. They burned up the chimney with a great 
roar and the castle rocked and shook. But there 
in the room stood the Princess all sweet and gentle 
and ten times more lovely than before. She 
thanked Lazykins for having released her from the 
spell and Lisa, the cat, now a pretty white kitten, 
came up and rubbed against his legs. 

“ Then the King and all the people rejoiced, 
and the wedding was celebrated with great splen¬ 
dor. But the church bell was hung up again, for 
Lazykins now wore a crown, and in time he grew 
to be as wise as he was strong. 

“ And that is all,” said the fairytale woman. 

“ It was a very good story,” declared the Grimm 
Brothers, but all the while the old woman was 
telling it, Wilhelm had seen Fairytale, finger on 
lip, standing behind her chair. Jacob, however, 
thought it was a ray of sunlight stealing through 
the narrow window that made the corner so bright. 
He was thinking of it still as the brothers took 
their way home. 

“ I have always liked a small window,” said he. 
u It invites you to look out and frames a little pic¬ 
ture, but a large window is not so restful, it frankly 
shows you what there is outside and nothing 
more.” 

“ But—” began Wilhelm, whose mind was on 
the story. 

“ Yes, I was coming to it,” said Jacob with a 
smile. “ Every fairytale is just such a little win¬ 
dow through which you get a glimpse of long for¬ 
gotten things, and there are some old touches in 
116 



BROTHERS GRIMM 


the one we have just heard. The youngster whose 
strength is such that he shatters what he touches 
and who does not feel the weight of millstones, is 
none other than young Siegfried of the old hero 
tales. And the Princess and her cat, like Cinder¬ 
ella, come from the East.” 

The evening star came out and the mists were 
rising from the sunken garden and it was time for 
Wilhelm to be in. And in the quiet room with 
the primroses on the window sill, he wrote down 
the fairytale woman’s story and many others that 
she told him, and every now and then he felt that 
Fairytale herself was looking over his shoulder. 


117 




TWO FLORENTINE FRIENDS 


The people of Florence were once building a 
church. It was to be a very fine one, so they kept 
on building and building, and even after a hun¬ 
dred years had gone by it was still unfinished. In 
that time the first builder had died and those that 
came after him had made a change here and added 
a bit there, and now it was grown so large that no 
one knew how to cover it with the dome which 
was needed to make it perfect. Every once in a 
while, therefore, the architects and builders and 
chief men of the city would get together and plan 
the raising of the dome, but each meeting ended 
by their saying that it could not be done. 

Now in this same city of Florence there lived 
two young goldsmiths who were fast friends; 
Brunelleschi was the name of the one, Donatello 
that of the other. Brunelleschi, however, did not 
like goldsmith’s work and was forever scolding 
about it. 

“ It is too small,’’ he would say, “ and too 
costly, and no matter how beautiful the work, 
there nearly always comes a time when it has to be 
melted down into money. No, give me stone or 
marble; you can do big things and lasting, in 
them.” 

One day, as the two friends sat together at work, 
Brunelleschi suddenly held up the golden goblet 
118 



FLORENCE CATHEDRA! 




































































TWO FLORENTINE FRIENDS 


which he was fashioning: “Look at this,” said 
he, pointing to the cover; “ what do you think of 
it ? ” 

“ Oh, it is beautiful,” cried Donatello, who ad¬ 
mired everything his friend did; u it looks just like 
a little golden dome.” 

“ Yes,” replied Brunelleschi, “ it is pretty 
enough, but suppose it were of stone, large enough 
to set above our dear duomo.” 

“ Oh, but you know it can’t be done,” exclaimed 
Donatello; “ every one says the space is too great 
to cover.” 

“ Yes, I know that it can’t be done,” sighed 
Brunelleschi, “ but it would be a task worth try¬ 
ing,” and he fell once more to his gold beating. 

A short time after this there happened some¬ 
thing which made Brunelleschi forget all about the 
dome, for a while, at least. Close by the great 
unfinished church stood a small and ancient one, 
very dear to the hearts of the Florentines, and 
they now wished to beautify it with some new 
doors. These were to be of bronze of the finest 
workmanship and a prize competition was to de¬ 
termine to whom the task should be awarded. Six 
artists thought they would like to try and one of 
them was Brunelleschi. Each was told to take 
the story of Abraham’s sacrifice and see what he 
could make of it on a small bronze tablet of a 
certain shape and size, and all were to be ready 
on a given day. Brunelleschi made up his mind 
to win; he dropped all other work and shut him¬ 
self up in his room, composing his subject over and 
over again and making studies for it, and Don¬ 
atello saw nothing of his friend for weeks. At 
119 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


last, however, Donatello could stand it no longer 
and one day he burst in upon his friend saying: 
“ Oh, Brunelleschi, I haven’t come to disturb, but 
can you leave your work just long enough to come 
and look at what I have to show you? ” 

Brunelleschi was willing and they set out for 
Donatello’s room. “ I, too, do not mean to re¬ 
main a goldsmith all my life,” went on the latter 
as they walked along; “ I want to be a sculptor 
and I am taking you now to see my first attempt 
at a figure. 

“ How do you like it? ” he said proudly, a few 
moments later when they had entered the room 
and were standing before a large carved wooden 
crucifix. 

Brunelleschi eyed it for a while in silence, then 
he said: “ I don’t like it at all; your Christ is not 
noble enough; he looks just like a peasant, and the 
whole thing is awkward and clumsy.” 

Now Donatello was known to be most sweet 
tempered, and he usually could stand criticism, but 
he had put so much fervor into his work and been 
so proud of it, that he felt very much hurt at 
Brunelleschi’s ungracious comments and for once, 
lost his temper. 

“ It’s easy enough to find fault,” grumbled he, 
“ but it’s quite another thing when it comes to do¬ 
ing better; just take a piece of wood and try for 
yourself, then you’ll see.” 

Brunelleschi pretended not to hear this and a 
little later went away. About two weeks later, 
however, he managed to meet Donatello in the 
street. “ Ah, Donatello,” cried he, affecting 
surprise, “where have you been all this time? 

120 



TWO FLORENTINE FRIENDS 


Come to my room and let us have one of our old 
time chats.” 

Donatello had long since forgotten his anger, 
so he gladly agreed. 

“ Come on, then,” said Brunelleschi, “ but let us 
first stop in the market and buy our dinner.” So 
they bought eggs and lettuce and a little cheese, 
for the old great artists lived very simply. Then 
turning to his companion, Brunelleschi said: 
“ Now, Donatello, suppose you take these things 
and go on ahead to the workshop; I’ll stop at the 
baker’s for some bread and then come right after 
you.” 

Donatello, nothing loath, went on his way; but 
the minute he entered the workshop he knew why 
Brunelleschi had sent him, for there in the very 
middle of the room, so placed that his eyes must 
fall upon it the first thing, stood a wondrous cruci¬ 
fix, so finely carved and so noble withal that Don¬ 
atello stood rooted to the spot, and raising his 
hands let fall to the floor, cheese, lettuce and eggs. 

“ Donatello, Donatello, what have you done? ” 
cried Brunelleschi, who had followed close be¬ 
hind; “ look, you have spoiled all of our dinner.” 

“ Ah, Brunelleschi, I have had dinner enough 
for to-day,” replied Donatello; “ but you are right 
— I can only shape peasants, while to you it is 
given to carve a Christ.” 

This was very generous of Donatello, for he 
might have said to his friend: “ You should be 
able to do better than I for I am only a boy of 
fourteen, while you are nine whole years older; but 
he did not measure by years but felt as an artist 
and as such saw where he had failed. 

121 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


But now the time had come for the prize tablets 
to be handed in. All six were good but the judges 
found two of them much better than the rest and 
one of these was Brunelleschi’s. At first it was 
hard to tell which of the two should have the 
prize, but in the end it was awarded to Ghiberti. 
“ His figures are more pleasing,” said the judges, 
“ and his composition is more harmonious. 
Brunelleschi’s Abraham is too violent in gesture, 
his angel is clumsy and the group in the foreground 
not as well placed as Ghiberti’s.” 

The two tablets were placed in the museum to 
prove that the judges had been wise in their de¬ 
cision and Ghiberti was told that the task of mak¬ 
ing the doors was his. He lost no time but set to 
work upon them at once but it was full twenty 
years before they were finished. The time was 
well spent, however, for never were doors more 
beautiful. Ghiberti had covered them with Bible 
stories all set about with fruit and flowers and 
fantastic birds, as softly molded as though the 
bronze were wax, and everybody, even Brunelleschi 
himself, had to confess that the judges had been 
very wise indeed. 

But at first Brunelleschi was bitterly disap¬ 
pointed and took his defeat very much to heart. 
Donatello tried to console him. “ Don’t look so 
unhappy,” said he; “you have every reason to 
feel proud; your tablet was next best and a won¬ 
derful piece of work for a first attempt; every¬ 
body says so.” 

“Next best, indeed!” growled Brunelleschi; 
“ next best won no more than last. No, if I can’t 
be first it’s not worth my while, and I’m through 
122 



TWO FLORENTINE FRIENDS 


with bronze work. But there’s the dome. It 
must be done, it can be done, and I am going to do 
it!” 

“ Oh! ” said Donatello. 

“ Yes; and I’m going to Rome, now. There’s 
a dome there built by the Romans long ago; I 
think it may help me solve the problem.” 

“Oh,” said Donatello again; then after a 
pause: “If you’re going to Rome, I’ll go too, 
for in spite of my first poor attempt, I still mean 
to be a sculptor, and those wonderful ancient 
statues which they are digging out of the ruins 
there may do me some good. It is said that they 
are more lovely than anything ever before seen.” 

“Good,” said Brunelleschi; “get ready then, 
for there is no time to lose.” Then he sold a 
little farm he had for money to tide him over, and 
one day the two friends said good-bye to Florence 
and passed out through the gate that led south to 
Rome. Their journey was on foot and they went 
along leisurely, now stopping in some village, now 
eating their dinner beneath a roadside tree and 
resting with the shepherds under the tranquil 
stars. They took a lift on a cart when offered, 
and from time to time they paused in some town 
and did a little goldsmith’s work, for it is not wise 
to spend your savings too fast. 

Finally Rome came in sight. It was a larger 
place than Florence and much older, and at first 
the two friends were confused by the endless 
streets with their tall dark houses and the temples 
and arches and gates. But by and by they fell 
under the spell of the ruins and Brunelleschi es¬ 
pecially could not tear himself away from them. 

US 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


He measured the depth of the foundations, the 
height of the shafts and their thickness, the way 
the arches were constructed and the set of the 
stones, and made note of everything. Donatello 
meanwhile looked at the figures on the capitals and 
the sculptures on triumphal arches and altars. 
Then one day he found the statues and Brunel¬ 
leschi the Pantheon, which was the building he had 
come to see, and after that they parted company 
and each went on his quest alone. At night they 
met and talked things over. 

“ It’s slow work and dusty,” said Brunelleschi. 
“ I’ve been lying on my back again all day trying 
to fathom the secret of that Roman dome. Those 
old builders were great fellows and knew a thing 
or two, but we surely ought to be as clever. If 
they domed a great space, why shouldn’t we dome 
an even greater? ” 

“Well, if that is the way you look at it—” 
began Donatello, but the other cut him short: 

“ Yes, I do. But how are the ancients treating 
you? ” 

“ Very kindly,” replied Donatello. “ You are 
right about their knowing a thing or two; they 
don’t mind giving a few hints either. To be sure 
they can afford to be generous, for who could ever 
lessen their glory? I shall indeed be the better 
sculptor for having known them, but at best I can 
be nothing more than just Donatello.” 

Meanwhile the money gave out and the two 
friends had to fall back on gold and silver work 
for a while, but as soon as possible they were back 
at their studies. One day Brunelleschi announced 
that he was ready to go home; he had solved the 
1U 



TWO FLORENTINE FRIENDS 


problem and the dome for the cathedral had not 
only taken shape in his brain but also reposed in 
his pocket, all carefully planned and set forth on 
paper. Donatello, too, was ready to go back, and 
Florence might well be glad to see them again after 
their two years’ absence, for great gifts were they 
to bring to her. 

It happened that Brunelleschi was just in time 
for one of the accustomed meetings for the plan¬ 
ning of the dome. As usual all manner of sugges¬ 
tions were offered and as usual, none of them 
would do. Then Brunelleschi arose. “ Let me 
build the dome,” said he; “I have found the 
way.” 

“ Where are your plans? Show them that we 
may see.” 

Brunelleschi, however, had neglected to bring 
them with him, but in the meantime he would show 
them a little trick. 

“ Can any one among you set an egg on end? ” 
he asked. 

The grave company looked somewhat surprised, 
but sent for the egg, which was accordingly 
brought; whereupon each good Florentine in turn 
tried to balance it. 

“ Impossible,” declared each one as he failed. 

“ Give it to me,” cried Brunelleschi, and taking 
the egg he placed it firmly on the table, breaking 
the shell, as a matter of course. 

“ Oh! ” cried they all, “ we could have done 
that too.” 

“ Yes,” replied Brunelleschi,, “ everything is 
easy when you once know how. Now if I were 
to show you my plans you would all say, ‘ Oh, we 
125 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


can do that too.’ No, I’ll not show them; but I 
am ready to stake my claim to fame, the thing 
most dear to me, on the undertaking, and as no 
one here seems able to raise the dome, I think the 
task should be mine.” 

“ No,” said the building committee, “ we must 
first see your plan.” 

“ I’ll show the dome when it’s done and that 
will be better,” insisted Brunelleschi, and he was 
so sure of himself that in the end he had his way. 
But the task was thought to be too great for one 
man alone, so a second master builder was to aid 
in the work, and who of all people should be 
chosen for this post, but Ghiberti! Brunelleschi 
stormed: 

“ Here is Ghiberti,” said he; “ Ghiberti, who is 
having fame enough through his lovely doors, and 
yet he wants to share in mine. Well, we shall 
see! ” 


Then the work began. Brunelleschi directed 
the workmen and Ghiberti, who of course knew 
nothing of the plan, came to look on. One day, 
however, Brunelleschi locked away his plans and 
took to his bed. 

“ Bring hot blankets,” shouted he, u and hot 
water and mustard plasters and cold cloths for my 
head, and hurry, for I am ill, oh, so ill! I’m 
aching all over,” and, indeed, he kept his house¬ 
hold in a pretty state of excitement. 

Meanwhile, over at the cathedral, the workmen 
were waiting for instructions. At last they went 
to Brunelleschi’s house for them, but he sent out 
word that he was too sick to think of building and 
that they should go to Ghiberti for their orders. 


126 




TWO FLORENTINE FRIENDS 


Ghiberti, however, could give no orders; he had 
never seen the plans and could do nothing without 
Brunelleschi. “ Ha! ” cried the latter, when this 
was told him, “ Ghiberti can’t get along without 
me; well, I could very well get along without 
him! ” and he groaned and called for more hot 
water. 

The building committee heard of it, of 
course, for the workmen brought the news. 
“ Ah,” said they, looking wise, “ we understand.” 
Then going to Brunelleschi they bade him make 
haste and get well; everything should be as he 
wished, said they, and Ghiberti would no longer 
stand in his way. Indeed, this good artist did not 
care for the work on the dome and was far better 
pleased with designing windows for the front of 
the church. Ah, but Brunelleschi chuckled! He 
flung away blankets and bandages and went back 
to work at once. And what a wonderful worker 
he was! He watched every detail; he never lost 
sight of the effect of the whole. He inspected the 
clay for the bricks, then the bricks themselves; no 
stone dared show a flaw; every bit of mortar, 
every iron girder fell under his watchful eye, and 
woe unto the careless workman, for Brunelleschi 
was building to defy time. And he was rewarded 
in the end and his heart leaped with pride when at 
last it rose before his sight, the dream of his 
youth, the work of his prime, the wonderful dome, 
hanging like a great airy bubble from its eight 
chains of stone work and crowning not the cathe¬ 
dral alone, but fair Florence too. And Florence 
remembers, too, and has placed him in stone in the 
square beneath the church, and there he sits look- 
127 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


ing up at his work as he did so many times in the 
days it was building. 

But the dome is not Brunelleschi’s only work. 
He was a great builder and many a church and 
palace and airy loggia in Florence rose under his 
hand, and he was happy in the thought that here 
was work more lasting than his old-time goblets 
and jewels of gold. 

And Donatello ? Oh, Donatello kept his prom¬ 
ise too. He became a great sculptor, one of 
the world’s greatest, and beautified his city with 
statues in marble and bronze. The things he had 
learned in Rome had, indeed, been a great help to 
him, but his work is not at all like that of the 
ancients; it is quite his own. In his great work¬ 
shop marble chips flew about at a lively rate; he 
was an untiring worker, and lo, from the block 
of dead marble stepped forth a brave young St. 
George, bright eyed and eager and ready to mount 
his charger and speed away in search of dragons; 
or a King David for Giotto’s tower. “ Ha, 
speak, speak! ” cried Donatello as he was strik¬ 
ing out this strange bald-headed figure, for he was 
most fond of it and sometimes forgot that it was 
not alive. And the children; next to ugly old men 
Donatello loved merry little children, and his 
chisel drew them forth from the marble in joyful 
bands, and the lively young street urchins playing 
about the squares of Florence, as Donatello, too, 
had once done himself, caught at their play and 
fitted out with wings, became dancing cherubs and 
graced the organ loft beneath Brunelleschi’s dome. 

Brunelleschi had a fine house but Donatello still 
lived very simply; he cared for nothing but his 
128 




ST. GEORGE 
Donatello 























• 























. 






















































TWO FLORENTINE FRIENDS 


work and possessions were only a trouble to him, 
but the two friends, now old friends indeed, often 
met and talked over the old times and the changes 
which had come to Florence since then. 




THE JOYOUS VENTURE OF THE RAJAH 

The good ship Rajah lay in the harbor getting 
ready for a voyage, and everybody in Salem town 
wondered whither she was bound. The captain 
knew it and the owner and the mate, but none be¬ 
side, not even the ten men of her crew, for it was 
a great secret. 

“ She is going in search of treasure,” said some. 

“ And into dangerous seas,” said others. 

“ Look at her four guns! ” 

“Yes, they are to keep her cargo from the 
pirates; just see how heavily she is laden.” 

Indeed, it was so; her hold was piled high with 
barrels and kegs and chests, yet craved she still 
more and there was no end to the stores which 
were being conveyed up her gang plank; brandy 
and gin and tobacco were among them; iron in 
bars, too, and as a matter of course, dried fish a 
plenty — Salem’s ships always carried that. Then 
came the salt pork and the biscuit and all the casks 
of water for the journey, after which the last good¬ 
byes were said and with the wind swelling her sails, 
the Rajah sped away on her joyous venture. 

“ Whither is she bound and when will she re¬ 
turn? ” asked the friends as they turned back from 
the wharf. 

“Yes, whither?” echoed the captains of the 
other ships that rode in Salem harbor under the 
130 


VENTURE OF THE RAJAH 


gray November sky. But one of them did more 
than ask; he secretly set sail and started in pur¬ 
suit. 

Over the billows and foam sailed the Rajah, 
tossed by winter storms and sheathed in sleet and 
ice. Southward she took her course, guided by 
compass and stars. The captain took the reckon¬ 
ing and wrote it down each day in the log book 
and the lookout up in the crow’s nest sighted noth¬ 
ing but sea and sky. But after many days he sang 
out: “ Land ho! ” and shortly after, “ Sail ho! ” 

“ Ah,” thought the captain at the first cry, “ we 
must be nearing the Cape, and all is well.” But 
he could make nothing of the sail and, indeed, she 
soon fell away and was seen no more. 

The captain was right, the Rajah was nearing 
the Cape of Good Hope, but before she sailed 
around it and bade a long farewell to the Atlantic, 
she ran up Table Bay and stopped at Cape Town 
for a little rest and to re-fill the empty water casks. 
The sailors were happy; they once more tasted 
fresh beef and bread and walked about on streets. 
But the white sails of the Rajah beckoned from 
the harbor and the captain had his quest in mind, 
so they sailed around the Cape and reached the 
other side of the world. 

The air grew warmer. They came to the Isle 
of France and here again they got out of the ship. 
This was a lovely place; great purple flowers grew 
all about and strange sweet fruits and many of 
the people were black or brown. . The captain 
sold his cargo but bought nothing in return and 
again he was in a hurry to get on. “Weigh 
anchor!” commanded he, and the bright island 
131 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


faded from sight and became a memory in the 
long days to come when the Rajah sailed the In¬ 
dian Ocean and the hot sky closed in upon the 
waves, from which sharks lifted their ugly heads. 

“ Sail, ho! ” cried the lookout. 

“ Can it be pirates? They are said to infest 
these waters,” thought the captain, looking 
through his glass. Then he called the mate. 

“ What do you make of her? ” said he. 

“ It is hard to tell,” replied the mate, “ but she 
doesn’t seem built like a pirate.” 

“ No,” said the captain, “ but it is better to be 
prepared; we’ll arm the men with cutlasses and get 
ready the guns.” 

Then they looked again, but now “ Aha! ” 
cried the captain and “ Aha! ” cried the mate, and 
they laughed aloud, for what they sighted was not 
a pirate at all but the Salem ship which coveted 
their secret. 

“ They have followed us all the way,” chuckled 
the captain. 

“ And they don’t care if we know it, now that we 
are nearing the islands and can no longer escape 
them,” grinned the mate, and they both laughed 
again, for they thought the secret still safe. 

Yes, they were again nearing land; if the chart 
had not told they might have known by the gulls 
and the drift. And now came coral reefs; great 
care was needed to keep clear of them but the 
Rajah could trust her captain and the other Salem 
ship did not fear to follow after. 

“ Land, ho! ” rang the cry and there at last was 
the goal, the island of Sumatra, faint and misty 
and blue at first, then growing green and bright 
132 





VENTURE OF THE RAJAH 


with cliffs and forests and tall mountains, some of 
them with smoking peaks. 

“ Volcanoes,” said the sailors and they began to 
rejoice in the good times ahead, fresh fowls and 
cocoanut milk, adventures with elephants and tales 
of the brown savages to tell the people at home; 
indeed, it’s a fine thing to be a sailor. 

“ Haul the bowline, the fore and maintop bowline, 

Haul the bowline, the bowline haul,” 

sang the crew at their work as the Rajah sped up 
along the coast. 

“ She is making for Bencoelen,” thought her 
pursuer, for this town was a great place for trade. 
“ There must be some great bargain there and 
we’ll have our share of it. However, we had best 
let the Rajah load up a little before we appear.” 

But when he got there no Rajah was to be seen, 
nor could he find trace of her at any of the other 
towns. “ She has given us the slip by going 
around some of those small islands; it’s Batavia 
that she is bound for,” reasoned the inquisitive 
captain; but no, neither there nor anywhere else 
did he find her on this trip. 

The Rajah did not stop at Bencoelen at all; she 
sailed past it in the night; she kept away from the 
other towns as well and went on up the coast until 
she came to the region where the wild forest runs 
down to the sea. And in all this time never once 
did the cry, “ Sail, ho! ” ring from the masthead, 
whereat both captain and mate right often made 
merry, for they were safe from pursuit and no 
prying eye was near to mark that the Rajah had 
come to the end of her quest and that the coveted 
133 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


prize was before her. Yes, there, running red 
riot among the trees, was treasure enough to load 
twenty ships; not pirate gold, nor pieces of eight, 
but something more precious than these — 
pepper. 

“ Ah,” said the captain, “ how they will open 
eyes in Salem when we get back there with our 
cargo.” 

But the sailors said, “ Now we go ashore,” and 
everybody felt happy but the watch, who must stay 
behind and guard the ship. So the boats were 
lowered, the men got in, and shoreward they pulled 
right heartily, ’waring reefs, as good sailors should 
and scaring off the sharks with their shouts. 

Strangest of forests was this, full of delights 
and of perils too. There were giant flowers with 
flame-hued, trembling petals that almost seemed 
alive. Great hairy spiders hung above them like 
magicians weaving horrid spells; snake monsters 
lurked coiled up in the thickets; monkeys and par¬ 
rots chattered in the tree tops; bananas and cocoa- 
nuts and pulpy orange and purple fruits hung on 
every side, and the captain had all he could do to 
keep the sailors from carrying all these things back 
to the ship. “ No, no, the pepper first,” com¬ 
manded he. So they stripped the vines of their 
gay burden and dried the red berries in the sun 
until they became hard and wrinkled and black. 
Then they piled them in the hold in boxes and 
barrels and sacks, and back and forth plied the 
boats, bringing more and more and more. But 
the captain could not get enough, a most greedy 
person was he, and the greater his store the more 
he craved. “ Where will we put our cocoanuts 
134 




VENTURE OF THE RAJAH 


and our monkeys and shells and lovely corals?” 
thought the sailors in alarm and indeed, they had 
a hard time to manage it, for now the hold was 
full and every possible spot below decks held its 
sack of pepper. No; never before, had such a 
lot of it been got together; it rose to the hatch 
coamings; it invaded the captain’s cabin and he 
and the mate made shift with hammocks slung any¬ 
where; even on deck you had to pick your way 
carefully because of the boxes and sacks of pepper 
standing about. Yet with all this the captain 
sighed and looked regretfully on all that he must 
leave behind; but indeed, not another pepper corn 
could he stow away, so “Homeward bound!” 
said he. 

No fear of any Salem rival was there now, so 
why should not the Rajah stop at Bencoelen for a 
supply of pork, both fresh and salt? She lay 
there in the harbor and it was night. The stars 
came out in the blue and the captain in his ham¬ 
mock looked up at them and thought of home. 
The waves gently lapped the sides of the ship and 
all was peaceful and still. Up at the masthead 
was the lookout, but he did not gaze at the stars; 
he peered instead into the black shadows near 
shore, something seemed to be moving there. 
Yes, he felt sure of it; those were native boats and 
they meant mischief, so he gave the alarm. In 
less than no time the Rajah awoke to life and all 
eyes looked to shore. 

“ Yes,” said the captain, “ you cannot trust 
these brown fellows; by day they come to barter 
and at night they take a creese between their teeth 
and steal up in their light proas, hoping to murder 
135 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


you in your sleep. Ha, the harbor is full of these 
pirates.” 

“ Let them come on,” cried the mate. “ The 
men have their cutlasses and the Rajah is ready to 
give audience.” 

Swift as a flight of swallows the proas came in 
a forward dash, for the Rajah lay dark and still 
as though wrapped in slumber. But now, a flash, 
a roar — she was not asleep, she showed her 
teeth — that was a gun! A sudden panic fell 
upon the pirates and they melted away again into 
the blackness of night. 

No, not all; one bolder fleet hurled itself into 
the circle of gloom that lay about the Rajah and 
agile forms began to swarm up over the railings. 
“ Back! ” shouted the sailors and beat them down 
with their cutlasses. Broken heads were all the 
pirates got that time and when the gray dawn 
broke an empty proas or two bobbing upon the 
waves and a couple of sailors wearing an arm in 
a sling were the only reminders of the fierce en¬ 
counter. 

Back over the Indian Ocean the Rajah took her 
homeward course, running before a squall like 
some frightened bird with white wings all a-flutter, 
or held in a calm beneath a brazen sky, unhappy 
idle days, when fever threatened and all eyes 
searched the heavens for the cloud that should 
bring a shower and the wished-for breeze. 

On again, on, on; the white foam flecked the 
keel, the sun sank down into the waves, the night 
set her stars in the blue above and scattered 
sparkles where the ship drew deep furrows in the 
sea. 


136 



VENTURE OF THE RAJAH 


“ Land, ho! ” Once more the half-remem¬ 
bered Isle of France rose out of the foam; once 
more they quaffed its cooling water and tasted of 
its fruits. Then came the Cape and now the sea 
which washed the shore of home, though home it¬ 
self was months away. Great storms rolled down 
the Atlantic but they did not begrudge the Rajah 
her little day of glory; so she braved sleet and ice 
and sheeted mists and at last sailed into the spring, 
for winter’s fury was over when they again drew 
near home. Anxiously the lookout watched for 
the first sight of the dear shore and the sailors 
talked over the wonders they were about to relate 
to their friends. 

u They will believe all about the pirates and the 
storms and sharks,” said one, “ but never that we 
saw flowers three feet across.” 

“ No, nor can they imagine that great creature, 
the elephant,” cried another ; “ if we could only 
have brought one back with us! ” 

Home ! How dear the sound, how pleasant the 
sight of it. What Indian island with palm trees 
and pagodas could take the place of Salem town? 
Ah, there was the custom house, there were the 
busy wharves, and that faint line of green beyond 
was the elm trees getting ready for the spring. 
Salem’s elms — the sailors cheered at sight of 
them and the ship swelled her sails with pride. 

And the people on the quay saw the ship come 
in. “ The Rajah is back,” they shouted and right 
glad they were for she had been away all of a 
year and a half. 

And the owner came, glass in hand, and scanned 
her anxiously; full often had he sighed in the long 
137 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


months gone by and asked himself: “ Is she 
lost?” Even now, seeing her he wondered, 
“ How did the venture end? And do they all re¬ 
turn that went? ” 

Yes, all the sea-browned faces looked over the 
side; not one w&s missing. And the venture — 
indeed, it was the talk of Salem for many a long 
day; and news of it went to Boston and all the 
other captains wagged their heads and laid deep 
plans, for they knew that the Rajah would go 
again for more. 

Thus ended the joyous venture of the Rajah, 
and for a time the precious pepper went to fill one 
of the great warehouses that stood looking out to 
sea, for in the old days those same old warehouses 
which stand so still and lonely now, were heaped 
to the eaves with spices and silks and sandalwood 
and tea, and all the fortunes which filled the coffers 
of Salem went in and out through their doors. 


138 









'pJfcj-T 

JUjurOu 


,--n_ 






iM _-•• nlrulinrTi 






mam 




ADORATION 

Ghirlandaio 































THE SHEPHERD AND THE KING 


It was cold out under the stars. The sheep on 
the hillside were huddled close together for 
warmth and the shepherds shivered and drew their 
cloaks about them. Gallus, Stephanos and 
Michael were asleep and it was Arpad’s turn to 
watch. He blew upon his fingers and looked up 
at the stars. “ Ah,” thought he, “ how still the 
night is and how near the stars. Stephanos says 
they sing sometimes and surely I hear them now. 
Yes, there is music and the air is full of flitting 
forms. Wake, shepherds, wake!” cried he in 
terror. 

“ What is it? Wolves? ” cried Gallus, starting 

U P- . 

“ Did you cry robbers?” murmured Michael, 
sleepily. 

“ No, no, the voices and the light! ” shouted 
Arpad. 

“ Ah,” cried Stephanos, the Wise, “ it is the 
angels singing because the King has come. Look, 
yonder, where the star points in the East.” 

“ But there lies Bethlehem, the hill town.” 

“ Yes, in Bethlehem, in the inn stable is the 
King. Poor, like ourselves, he chose to come. 
He lies in a manger, watched by ox and ass. And 
hark, the angels sing and the star points; come, 
shepherds, let us go to him.” Thus old Stephanos, 
the Wise. 


139 


OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


Then uprose the simple shepherds, crying: 
“ Yes, let us to the King with gifts.” 

“ I have a sheepskin lined with red will keep him 
warm,” cried one. 

“ Six new-laid eggs in a wicker basket I can 
bring,” cried another. 

“ And I, a fine round cheese,” a third. 

“ My gift shall be a lamb,” came from the 
fourth. “ Come, let us away.” 

“ But stay,” commanded Stephanos; “all may 
not go; one must guard the flocks. Arpad, ’tis 
yours the turn to watch.” 

“ Nay,” cried Arpad, “ I saw the star first, 
surely I should go. Look, Stephanos, the way is 
long and steep and you are old; take the watch for 
me and I will bear your gift along with mine.” 

Stephanos shook his head: “Long have I 
waited for the coming of the King and these old 
eyes long for the sight of him.” 

“ Peace on earth and good will to men,” sang 
the angels. 

“ Oh, Stephanos, you are so wise and I have 
seen so little; let me go.” 

Stephanos bowed his head: “ Go, Arpad,” said 
he slowly. “ I shall keep the flocks in your stead.” 

Along the road went the shepherds, Arpad at 
their head, although he bore the gift of Stephanos 
along with his own sheepskin lined with red. The 
angels no longer sang but the great white star still 
stood over Bethlehem. When they came to the 
place where the road crossed the broad highway 
which led out into the world, they beheld lights 
and many people. The gleaming torches showed 
strange faces, yellow and brown, robes of ermine 
140 



THE SHEPHERD AND THE KING 


and scarlet, and golden crowns. These were great 
people and they came with horses and camels and a 
mighty train. 

“ O shepherds,” cried they, “ tell us, we pray 
you, how to find the King. Three kings are we; 
we follow the star from afar and it ever leads us 
on, yet in cities and palaces we have found him 
not.” 

“ O Kings,” answered the shepherds, “ the star 
leads you aright. Yonder town on the hill is 
Bethlehem and in it is the King. Follow the road 
and it will take you there.” The bells of the 
camels tinkled, the horses pranced, and the kings 
went on their way. 

But not over the highroad went the shepherds; 
their path was up among the rocks and along the 
sheep tracks, the blue night above them and the 
lighted torches dancing like fireflies far below. 

All silent lay Bethlehem, the little town. The 
star stood above it and its soft light silvered the 
walls and roofs. All silent lay the houses, all 
silent lay the streets; a little lamp hung in the en¬ 
trance to the stable yard and an angel kept watch 
there. But the yard was full of angels; they sat 
on the stable roof, they peeped from the granary, 
they floated up and down the broad beams of the 
star and they sang and played soft, sweet music. 

The shepherds entered the stable and they knelt 
before the King and laid their gifts at his feet. A 
weak, small babe was the King and the gold straw 
of the manger was his pillow. His mother leaned 
above him tenderly, the ox lowed, the ass looked 
on, and Joseph came to take the gifts; the fair 
round cheese, the eggs, the lamb, the gift of 
141 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


Stephanos; but the Child laid his little hand upon 
the sheepskin lined with red and Joseph saw it not. 

“ A king and so poor! Those others made a 
braver show,” thought Arpad, when he saw no 
crown nor any sign of state. But the Child looked 
up with calm, grave eyes; a wondrous radiance 
filled the manger and rose and spread and mounted 
to the rafters, the stable faded away and Arpad 
stood before the gate of Paradise. Yes, at its 
very gate he stood, Arpad, the shepherd, and 
looked within. Oh, where was earthly kingdom 
like to this? He saw the King upon his ivory 
throne, he saw sunlit slopes, and fountains, and 
trees with gold and silver fruit. An angel peeped 
above the wall and a little heavenly flower had 
crept under the gate and blossomed like a star in 
the dusty roadside grass. And along the road 
came many people, they stopped before the gate 
and asked the porter to let them in. But the 
porter always looked them up in his big book be¬ 
fore he would open and sometimes he would not 
open at all, but shake his head and say, “ No.” 

There came three kings along the road, slowly, 
wearily, as though spent with much travel. Ah, 
yes, kings do not often go on foot, yet in no other 
way might you approach the gate. 

“ Kings? ” said the porter, turning the pages of 
his book, “yes, here it is; Melchior, Gaspar, Bal¬ 
thasar — kings wise, just and merciful. You may 
come in,” and the gate opened before them. 

“ Ah,” thought Arpad, “ the kingdom is for the 
rich and great—” but even as he thought it three 
shepherds came that way; Gallus, Michael, Ste¬ 
phanos — Arpad knew them well and he turned to 
142 



THE SHEPHERD AND THE KING 


join them. But alas, he was fixed to the spot and 
could not lift his feet. 

“ Stephanos,” said the porter, “ you have been 
more wise and just and merciful even than the 
kings: enter in. And Gallus and Michael, kind 
and simple souls, you too may walk in Paradise,” 
and the three went in through the gate. 

Then Arpad was released from the spot where 
he stood. “ Oh, good porter,” cried he, running 
up, “ I am one of the shepherds, let me in, I pray 
you! ” 

But the porter shook his head, “ No, Arpad,” 
said he; “you have set self before all else, and 
selfish people may not enter here. But since you 
are, indeed, one of the shepherds of the star, 
another chance shall be given you. Go back 
among your fellows and learn to love them ac¬ 
cording to the bidding of the King. Then, when 
you stand here once again — well, we shall see, 
we shall see.” With that the gate of Heaven 
paled and went out like a star at dawn and Arpad 
knelt as before beside the manger in the stable at 
Bethlehem, and the Child was looking at him with 
grave, kind eyes. 

Into the stable at Bethlehem came the kings with 
camels and train, and bearing gifts of incense and 
of gold they knelt before the manger, but over the 
hills went the shepherds back home. Arpad 
walked behind and the sheepskin lined with red 
was in his hand. And Arpad thought: u Ste¬ 
phanos is old and his cloak thin, a new sheepskin 
would keep him warm — and Michael has hurt 
his hand, I know where to find some herbs would 
h ea l it — and Gallus wants some reeds for a new 
143 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


pipe —” yes, Arpad suddenly remembered more 
and more things that he might do for others. 

Out on the hillside beneath the paling stars old 
Stephanos, the Wise, sat watching the flocks. 
Arpad ran up to him and placing the sheepskin 
about his shoulders, said: “ The King sends you 
this gift and you will see him, for you are one of 
the blessed.” 

“ I have seen him; he was here with me,” said 
old Stephanos, the Wise, and he stroked the sheep¬ 
skin and smiled at Arpad, for he understood. 


144 















1 



CANGRANDE STATUE — VERONA 


TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


Cangrande was riding along towards supper 
one fair May evening in the long ago when near 
the old Roman amphitheatre he came upon the ex¬ 
iled Florentine. Turning to one of his followers 
the Lord of Verona bade him dismount, then point¬ 
ing to the empty saddle, he cried: “Come, 
Messer Dante, give us the pleasure of your good 
company.” Perhaps Dante might have preferred 
to go on his solitary way, but the bidding of his 
host and protector was to be looked upon as a 
grace and favor, so he mounted and they jogged 
on, the mortal and the immortal, side by side, 
through the peaceful streets of the ancient city, 
now under some gateway, now past the lion-sup¬ 
ported porch of some old church above which 
floated the mellow tones of Verona’s evening bells. 

Cangrande was in high spirits; “ What do you 
find in the arena that you spend so many hours 
among its empty benches?” he inquired of his 
companion. 

“ The plan for my Hell,” replied the poet; “ it 
descends in narrowing circles, wide-mouthed at the 
top, and, funnel shaped, drawing its walls closer 
and closer together as it nears the bottom; thus 
have I conjectured Hell and this have I found in 
your arena.” 

“Good!” cried Cangrande, with his joyous 
145 


OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


smile, “ I, too, have been watching walls, both 
visible and invisible; the walls which are to keep 
Verona from the foe. See, how they are going 
up,” and he pointed down a street at whose lower 
end a portion of the new wall was to be seen. 
“ When they are finished, Verona will be a strong 
place indeed, and bold will be the foe that tries to 
scale them.” 

“ Strong walls are good, but they sometimes 
hold the foe within,” said Dante, thinking of his 
home city, but Cane’s mood did not fit in with this 
remark, the truth of which was not to be denied, 
so he pretended not to hear it. 

“ Yonder,” said he, changing the subject, 
“ yonder is the house of the Capuletti; surely, even 
down in Florence, you must have heard the tale of 
the lovers, Giulietta, daughter of this house, and 
Romeo, son and heir of the Montecchi, who tried 
to heal the feud between their houses with their 
love. Heal it they did, but ’twas their death 
brought about the reconciliation. Methinks this 
were a theme to match the one in your book.” 

“ Mine is an even sadder tale,” replied the poet. 
“ These young lovers were happy in their death, 
for no wrong was theirs, nay, even good came of 
it; but the lovers of Rimini, victims, too, of fate, 
are not guiltless and are doomed to expiate through 
all eternity the wrong of their own and others’ 
doing.” 

But now the little company had reached the 
Costa, that old arch so named from the bone of a 
pre-historic monster, which still hangs suspended 
under its vault, and the horses, too, knowing that 
the palace was only just beyond, there was but 
146 




TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


little need of the spur to make the home-coming 
spirited. In the courtyard they were met by var- 
lets with flaming torches, for it was growing dark 
within the walls and the ruddy light from the 
kitchen fire danced through the open door upon 
the flags outside. 

“ Bring your tale of the lovers of Rimini to read 
at the board to-night,” said Cangrande to Dante as 
they dismounted, for the Lord of Verona was a 
patron of the arts and next to a good fight dearly 
loved a good story. 

But that night the assembled guests waited long 
for their host’s coming and their appetites grew 
sharp and the cook’s temper dangerous, but they 
could not begin without him. He, however, was 
not late by reason of lack of appetite; Cangrande 
was young and vigorous and a long day in the 
saddle had made him most hungry, so he made all 
haste to get ready for his supper. But even as he 
was turning to descend to the hall, a messenger 
was brought before him, a bent, coarsely clad 
figure, which suddenly straightened up and half 
casting aside its disguise, revealed the features of 
the Podesta of Vicenza. 

“ Bailardino da Nogarola!” cried Cangrande 
completely taken aback. “ What is wrong in 
Vicenza, that you stand here before me in this 
guise? ” 

“ Ah, my Lord,” said the other, “ I bring evil 
tidings. The Paduans and the Vicentian exiles 
are planning an attack.” 

“What! against those strong walls?” ex¬ 
claimed Cangrande. 

“ No, the walls are safe enough, but the gates 
147 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


have harkened to treachery. On the night of the 
twenty-second of this month of May, they are to 
open to the foe. Muzio, one of the garrison, was 
won over to do the deed, but his heart failed him 
and he bared the plot to me.” 

“And you call this evil tidings?” exclaimed 
Cangrande, his face alight with joy. “ Man, it’s 
fine news, the finest in the world! Have you for¬ 
gotten the peace pact between ourselves and Padua, 
made only three years ago? The first to break it 
pays a fine, and — Ah, Bailardino, this is great 
news indeed; the Paduans break the peace and I 
shall be able to attack their city and add it to my 
territory. Hasten back home; let the plot go on; 
tell your man to agree; the gate shall open, but — 
I shall be there to receive the guests.” 

This was the reason why Cangrande was late. 
The horizon cleared immediately at sight of him, 
the cook and attendants rushed about the kitchen 
at a great rate, and the Jester, who had been as 
gloomy as Dante and as savage as the cook, in¬ 
stantly became the funny man once more, and very 
opportunely remembered a story. 

Now the good old days of the simple life were 
all over in Cangrande’s day, at least that was what 
Dante and everybody else said. To be sure the 
bones were still thrown under the table, but a man 
and his wife no longer ate from the same trencher 
and so when the company at last sat down it was 
each man to his own plate. There was macaroni, 
of course, and it was piping hot. Dolcibene, the 
Jester, who was famished, swallowed a mouthful 
and burned his tongue. 

“ Go gently, good Dolcibene, lest harm befall 
148 




TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


that tongue of thine,” cried his nearest neighbor. 

“ Nay,” mocked another, “ Dolcibene has need 
of haste; he’ll miss the roast else.” 

And, sure enough, at that moment the roast ap¬ 
peared, goodly in size, fragrant with the odor of 
orange and rose water, which had been poured 
upon it, and thickly strewn with sparkling white 
sugar; it was indeed a brave sight, and gaily did 
the carver attack it. 

“ Ah! ” cried Dolcibene, as soon as he had re¬ 
gained the use of his tongue. “ You carve well, 
Messer Carver, but know you how to do it accord¬ 
ing to the rules of grammar, I wot not, and 
therefore I shall tell you. 

“ You must know then, that some years ago, 
there dwelt not far from here, a worthy farmer 
who had a son, two daughters and a second wife. 
The boy was his father’s pride and to show it the 
good man sent him to Bologna to study law. The 
student sent home good reports and frequent de¬ 
mands for money, which the father granted will¬ 
ingly enough but which were not at all to the liking 
of the stepmother, who lifted up her voice in com¬ 
plaint: ‘It’s nothing but money, money, and 
more money for that carcass of yours,’ she said 
— carcass in those parts being only another word 
for good-for-nothing. ‘ And,’ continued she, 

‘ pray, where is your gain in thus robbing your¬ 
self and others for him? ’ ” 

“ ‘Nay, wife, ’tis a cause for pride to have a 
scholar in the family, and, truly, a lawyer is a fine 
investment.’ 

“Well, the youth kept on in Bologna in spite 
of his stepmother, who cried: ‘Oh, yes, give it 
149 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


all to your carcass/ every time she saw the money 
going. Then one day, the youth came home on 
a visit and the proud father in his joy ordered his 
wife to prepare a capon in honor of the occasion, 
and invited the village priest to come and partake 
of it. When they were all ready to begin supper 
and the father was about to carve, the wife, with 
an angry glance at the student, said: ‘ Why not 

let your fine son show what he learned at school; 
bid him carve this fowl according to the rules of 
grammar.’ The father, well pleased to show off 
his prodigy, nodded his head and cried: 

“ ‘ Come, my lad, cut up this capon for us, but 
mind that you do it learnedly.’ 

“ ‘ Willingly,’ replied the student, and being well 
aware of his stepmother’s opinion, he set to work 
with an inward chuckle. First he cut off the comb 
and placing it on a plate, passed it to the priest 
saying, ‘ You are our spiritual father and wear 
the shaven crown, I give you, therefore, the crest 
of the capon.’ Then he cut off the head and pre¬ 
sented it to his father with the words, 1 You are 
the head of the house and to you therefore be¬ 
longs the head.’ He next cut off the legs and feet 
and gave them to his stepmother. 4 You,’ said 
he, ‘ look after the affairs of the house, and go up 
and down untiringly; to you without doubt, belong 
the feet.’ Then cutting off the tips of the wings, 
he thus addressed the girls: ‘You, my sisters, 
will one day fly from the home nest; you will need 
wings for this, and here they are. As for me, I, 
as you all know, am nothing but a carcass, and the 
carcass therefore, must be my share,’ and with this 
he began to cut up and eat the capon. 

150 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


“ The stepmother’s fury may be imagined, nor 
were the other diners any better pleased, the 
father himself, even pulling a long face. But the 
youth had not studied law for nothing and so he 
managed to give his reason for the division in such 
a convincing manner that they all forgave him and 
when he once more departed for Bologna, he was 
at peace with everybody, even his stepmother.” 

“ Bravo! ” cried Cangrande when Dolcibene 
had ceased speaking, “ Bravo! ” and he smiled ap¬ 
proval at the Jester, although he had not heard 
a word of the story; but under its cover he had 
been able to perfect his plans and he now said: 

“ Gentlemen, word has been brought me, that 
my hawks at Soave are spoiling for a fight and that 
there is quarry for them in plenty, so, to-morrow, 
at dawn, be ready to ride forth with me. And 
since it is growing late and we must take a little 
rest before setting out, there will be no time to¬ 
night for your tale, Messer Dante. We desire 
you therefore, to come with it to Sirmione, where 
the ladies are staying, say in two weeks’ time.” 

The next morning, long before daybreak, the 
courtyard of the castle was full of waiting knights 
all ready to attend their lord. But early as they 
were, Cangrande was almost as early and away 
went the gay cavalcade over the stone bridge which 
spanned the rushing green Adige. The way led 
past a church, and before the portal the company 
dismounted and entered within to kneel for a while 
in prayer as was then thought a fitting preface to 
the day’s affairs. 

The first rosy streaks of dawn were breaking 
in the sky when they had again taken horse, and a 
151 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


little more and they went out from the walls by 
one of the many gates and rode away, away, to 
where the hawks were longing to fly and where 
other game was waiting, as Cangrande knew. 

Dante came slowly down the steps after the 
echoing hoofbeats of the horses had died away 
against the walls and took his way through the 
streets, leisurely and lost in thought. As he went 
along he brushed against two women, whose sud¬ 
den recoil roused him from his meditations. 
“ Look,” cried the elder, to her companion, “ look, 
that is the Florentine who has been to hell. See, 
how the smoke and heat have seared and singed 
his face,” and they both shuddered in an ecstasy 
of fear. 

Dante smiled grimly as he passed under an old 
gate, partly for pride in his work, partly in bitter¬ 
ness of spirit. “ They little know the truth they 
speak,” said he to himself. “ I have indeed trod 
the dread abyss and its horrors have burned into 
my soul.” 

He paused before a walled garden and going 
through the gate went slowly up the cypress 
avenue. Here he was wont to come and mould 
his thoughts in the peaceful shelter of the century- 
old trees. But to-day he trod the path to the end, 
where the grotto opens in the rocky wall. Over 
its top he climbed, to the lookout high above the 
garden and gazed far out over the city and the 
plain beyond. Alas, the sight he longed for was 
too far removed for mortal eye, but far to the 
south it lay, his own beloved city, his Florence, 
where never again might he set foot. In time to 
come that city was to place monuments to him and 
152 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


give him an empty tomb in Santa Croce, where so 
many of her illustrious sons are sepulchred. Her 
citizens would be proud to write his words on their 
walls as they have done in the Palazzo Vecchio, 
but then they were eager to burn him in the square 
before that very palace. Now they point with 
pride to the house in which he lived, but when it 
meant home to him, Dante had lost it. And he 
turned his face away to the other side, where in 
the distance gleamed a line of silvery blue, Lake 
Garda, on whose shore lay a Scaliger castle and 
where just now his old friend Giotto, the painter, 
was at work upon some pictures for Cangrande. 

And Dante felt a great desire to see his friend 
and hold converse with him and he thought: 
“ Why not seek him out on foot? ” So he came 
down the steps into the garden once more and 
lingered a moment beside the fountain near the 
gate for a cooling draught of water, then bethink¬ 
ing himself that he had best buy some food to take 
with him on his long walk, he took his way to the 
old market-place, where people had been wont to 
gather even before the long-gone, Roman days 
and where still to-day the peasants come to sell 
the fruitful plenty of the Lombard plain. Here 
Dante had been known to sit writing away, all un¬ 
mindful of the noise and clatter round about him. 
But to-day he looked at the wares displayed and 
bought bread and cherries and a little cheese. 
Then taking his way over the bridge and through 
one of the gates in the wall, he was soon out in the 
open country. As he went along he at first met 
peasants at work in the villages and fields near 
the city, but presently the country grew wilder and 
153 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


more and more neglected, for those times of sud¬ 
den wars brought evil days for the tiller of the 
soil, who raised his crop in fear and trembling, 
and only here and there did the poet happen upon 
a hut or a half frightened laborer. 

Once, beneath a tree, he found a swineherd, and 
it being in the heat of day, Dante sat down beside 
him and offered the shy, half-wild creature a share 
of his slender fare. Then he went on again, his 
mind busy with his great poem; he forgot the end 
of his journey, he did not heed the path, and it 
was not until a sudden chill in the air made him 
shiver, that he discovered himself among the giant 
trunks of mighty forest trees. He looked about 
for the path, but there was none, he tried to find 
the direction by the sun and sought anxiously for 
some sign of a human presence, but the tree tops 
shut out the light and the foot of man seemed 
never to have trod that wilderness. 

Dante moved forward as the undergrowth al¬ 
lowed, for the wood became more and more im¬ 
passable and there was no retracing of steps. It 
grew darker, but by and by little fitful flashes of 
moonlight darted through the trees, a path sprang 
up suddenly under his feet and Dante hoped for 
the end of the wood. But when the trees receded 
he found himself wandering between rocky walls 
which grew steeper and higher as he pushed for¬ 
ward. There was a sound of rushing waters, 
white mists issued from caverns and clefts, trem¬ 
bling shadows filled the place and long phantom 
creeping things tried to reach out into the night. 
Dante shivered, the path seemed uncertain, here 
and there a stone loosened beneath his tread and 
154 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


fell into the depths below. Strange noises quiv¬ 
ered through the air and turned his blood cold; 
he dared not go on, and, groping his way back to 
where the path was broader and more sheltered by 
the rocks, he crouched down in a hollow beneath 
a great boulder and waited for the morning, de¬ 
termined not to sleep. At last, however, exhaus¬ 
tion conquered his fears and the horrors of the 
night faded from his consciousness and he knew no 
more until he was awakened by a noise, no ghostly 
sound this time, but a good human whistle, and 
crawling forth from his shelter he gazed straight 
at his friend Giotto, who was coming over the 
narrow path with the utmost unconcern. To tell 
the truth the rocky pass looked less formidable by 
daylight and mists and monsters had all fled be¬ 
fore the dawn, but Dante only half believed his 
eyes and wondered whether the figure before him 
were really Giotto, or his ghost. 

Giotto was no less surprised: “Dante, you 
here?” he cried. “But why? Are you bound 
for Germany? ” 

“ Germany? No, I was hoping to get to Sir- 
mione, but lost my way.” 

“ This road leads over the mountains into Ger¬ 
many, so turn about and come with me, who am 
bound for Sirmione too.” 

“ I thought to find you there, painting for the 
Scaliger,” said Dante. 

“ And so I am,” replied Giotto, “ but I needed 
some contented-looking peasants and cattle for my 
groups, and did you ever see worse wretches than 
one finds here in this Lombard plain? Well, up 
in the mountains I know of some sheltered villages, 
155 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


so remote and hard to reach, that soldiers and 
plunderers have never found them out. There I 
made a lot of sketches and can now go on with my 
work.” 

Giotto did much work for Cangrande, who was 
proud to draw to his court the greatest painter of 
the day, but the artist’s fame does not rest on this 
work, every vestige of which has disappeared, 
leaving behind nothing but the tradition of its 
beauty. But in his long life he painted many 
frescoes still left for us to see, like the story of 
Saint Francis of Assisi, which on that day, when 
the friends met in the wilds, had already for some 
time graced the walls of the good saint’s church. 

And Giotto, answering Dante’s questions about 
his work, told of these pictures of the saint, whom 
they both loved, the good Saint Francis, who 
tamed the fierce wolf of Gubbio, who preached to 
the little birds, bidding them praise God, who had 
given them wings and song. Saint Francis, who 
called the sun and moon brothers, and who so 
loved his fellows, that for their sakes he married 
the Lady Poverty, whom all the world despised. 

All these things and many more Giotto had told 
in color on the walls of the church. And there 
was one work of Giotto’s not yet thought of that 
day, the bell tower in Florence, which bears his 
name and which rose from his plans. He never 
lived to see it completed; Dante never knew that 
it was to grace Florence, but perhaps some of the 
sketches made in the mountain valleys went into 
the story of labor, sculptured about its base, for 
Giotto was an architect too, and a sculptor, as well 
as a painter. 


156 




















































































































































































































































******* 



DANTE 

Giotto 






TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


But now the good roads and the bad, which lat¬ 
ter were often steep and difficult to climb, had 
brought the wanderers at length to lovely Lake 
Benacus, as Dante knew it; Lake Garda, as it is 
called to-day. On its shore lay Sirmione and the 
frowning castle of the Scaligers, the end of their 
journey, promised shelter and good cheer to the 
weary, hungry twain. And as they walked along, 
Giotto suddenly exclaimed: “ But enough about 
myself; tell me, old friend, how fares it with 
you? ” 

“ Alas,” replied Dante, “ they are more than 
kind to the exile, these Scaligers, and were I as 
gay and cheerful as Dolcibene, they would be 
kinder still; but, Giotto, you little know how sav- 
oreth of salt the bread of others, and how hard a 
road, the going up- and down another’s stairs.” 

Some days later the two friends were out once 
more beside the lake and “ near the Roman ruin 
where the purple flowers grow,” Dante took out 
his poem and began to read portions of it to his 
friend. And he came to the story of the lovers 
of Rimini. Truly, a more fitting place for the 
telling of this tale than the noisy banquet-room 
was this spot, where young Catullus once had 
dwelt. “ Tenderest of Roman poets, nineteen 
hundred years ago,” sang Tennyson, as he stood 
among these same purple flowers in our own days 
and recalled the young Roman’s famous “ Ave, 
frater, atque vale.” 

Here, then, Dante began his account of the 
second circle of the Inferno, where the spirits as 
a punishment for their sins are forever driven for¬ 
ward by repentance and unfulfilled desires, which 
157 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


sweep them onward like a great blast through 
which their wailings sound like the mournful notes 
of storm-driven birds. And among these souls 
Dante beholds the shades of the unhappy lovers 
of Rimini. Giotto, as all Italy, knew the tale of 
the fair Francesca, who to cement the peace be¬ 
tween two rival States was made to wed the heir of 
her father’s former foe. But Gianciotto, heir to 
the Lord of Rimini, was ugly and deformed, and 
in order to hide her fate from Francesca until it 
was too late a younger brother was sent to marry 
her by proxy. And it happened — as it has hap¬ 
pened before and since — love made Paolo and 
Francesca forget their duty, and Gianciotto, in 
jealousy, slew them both. Poets both old and 
new have tried to tell the tale, but never has it 
been done as in Dante’s few lines, and when the 
poet called these two shades forth from the whirl¬ 
ing train and Francesca intoned her sad: “ The 
land where I was born sits by the sea,” Giotto sat 
entranced under their spell. “ There is no greater 
sorrow than to be mindful of the happy time in 
misery,” said Francesca, ere she told of the lovers’ 
happy hours over the pages of the old romance and 
of the fatal kiss which closed the volume. “ For 
that day no farther did we read therein.” And 
Dante folded up his pages with the words: “ And 

for pity I swooned away and fell as a dead body 
falls.” 

“Ah, Messer Dante, Messer Dante!” sighed 
a voice behind him, and turning, the poet beheld 
the Jester stretched out in the grass. “ Ah, Dante, 
Dante, gladly would I give my cap and bells and 
my master’s smile for your exile and your gloom, 
158 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


could but one of my tales live as yours will in the 
days to come. Ah, fate may have hit you hard, 
but be thankful she did not make you a fool.” 

“ Thanks, Messer Dolcibene,” said Dante 
gently. “ I fear that I have wronged you in 
thought, and I suspect that you write poetry in 
secret. But how come you here? Did you not 
follow Cangrande to Soave? ” 

“ Aye, and farther, even to Vicenza, where the 
fool for once played the man and fought. Ah, I 
forgot, you do not know the tale. Hark! do you 
not hear the noise of the return even here? ” 

It was true; the sound of trumpets and shouting 
came faintly on the wind. “ Yes,” went on Dol¬ 
cibene, “ our Big Dog is back and once more vic¬ 
tory is his. We did indeed hunt at Soave, but it 
was not the hawks that drew us there, but the fact 
that Soave is nearer to Vicenza than is Verona, 
and one dark night we donned armor and rode 
towards Vicenza, for the town was to be attacked 
the next night and we were to be there when it 
happened. Ah, Cane had laid a deep plot! So 
in the wood near the city, our Captain, Uguccione 
with most of the men hid, while Cane, attended 
by a smaller number, rode up to the town in the 
twilight and entered the gate. Our coming was 
kept secret and the enemy fell into the trap. At 
dawn word was brought that the attacking party 
was already in the suburb and scaling the walls.. 

“ Then Cangrande, disguised as a Vicentine 
leader, hastened to the gate which was to admit 
the besiegers and gave the word for it to be flung 
wide. Ah, and there in the entrance stood Cane, 
ready to welcome them. A warm welcome they 
159 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


found it indeed, though at first they suspected noth¬ 
ing and it was not until Cangrande charged upon 
them with his cry ‘ La Scala ! La Scala ! ’ that the 
Paduans knew that they had been betrayed. They 
made a good stand, though, and it might have 
fared ill with Cane, for there were but forty of 
us, but Uguccione came up in the nick of time and 
cutting his way through the Paduans, they, taken 
between two fires, took to flight. And here we 
are back and great is the measure of our joy.” 

When Dolcibene had done, the three, with 
whom the shade of Catullus may have lingered 
with its “ Hail and Farewell,” arose, and skirting 
the lake went towards the castle, where Verona’s 
great son was getting ready to celebrate his latest, 
but not yet his last, victory. 


160 




MOZART 

The Herr Kapellmeister Leopold Mozart and 
his wife had gone out and the children were alone 
in the big living-room. To be sure, there were 
watchful eyes upon them; Resi, the cook, looked 
in once in a while from her kitchen, and Poldi, the 
man servant, came and went, now seeing to the 
stove, now bringing Papa’s clothes which he had 
been brushing, so their parents knew them to be 
safe. 

Wolfgang was hard at work on his oratorio. 
Archbishop Sigismund had ordered it for the 
Lenten service and he was anxious to see how it 
would turn out. But Wolfgang was a great musi¬ 
cian, even though he was only ten years of age, 
and the oratorio was getting on most beautifully. 
The little composer knew it too, his pen scratched 
away merrily as the thoughts came, only sometimes 
he took up too much ink and there would be a blot. 

“ But,” reflected he, “ nobody can tell that when 
the music is being played,” and nobody ever did, 
although the blots are on the paper still. 

“ Good, good! ” he all of a sudden exclaimed, 
and jumping down from his chair he bestrode 
Papa’s walking stick and capered gleefully around 
the room, then quite as suddenly climbed back on 
his chair and went on with his work. And old 
Mies, the cat, had a sorry time of it, for Wolf- 
161 


OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


gang w6uld not allow her to doze in peace in her 
corner by the stove; every time that she curled 
herself into a mat he cuddled his face in her fur 
or picked her up and set her feet upon the key¬ 
board, “ for ideas,” he said, delighted with puss’s 
queer music. 

“Oh, Nannerl, this is good; I must let you 
hear it,” and running to the clavier he played a 
charming flowing melody which the tenor was to 
sing. 

Nannerl listened attentively for she knew all 
about such things. “ Yes,” was her decision, “ it 
is lovely, and I think Papa will be pleased.” 

“ Pleased, teased! I like it, I like it,” sang Wolf¬ 
gang, playing it over, and indeed so fond was he 
of this air that he used it again in his next com¬ 
position. 

The short winter evening drew to a close; Resi 
came in with the children’s supper; Poldi lighted 
the candles and cut out shadow pictures to amuse 
his young masters. 

“ Poldi,” cried Wolfgang, “ it is too bad that 
no grown-ups are allowed there, else you should 
be appointed royal limner to the court of 
Ruecken.” 

“ Indeed, and where may it be, this court of 
Ruecken? ” inquired Poldi politely. 

“ Why, it’s our kingdom; Nannerl’s and mine; 
she is Queen and I am King, and all the court and 
people are children too. And, oh, Poldi, please 
draw us a map of it.” 

“ Very well,” said Poldi, “ only you must tell 
me how.” 

“ Oh, in the center place the capital with the 
162 




MOZART 


royal palace and a big apple orchard behind it.” 

“ And on one side of the kingdom,” broke in 
Nannerl, “must be the ocean; it is such fun to 
watch it run away and come back again.” 

“ Yes, and on the other side woods that stretch 
away and away,” cried Wolfgang. 

“ And above it mountains with great high peaks 
that turn all pink in the sunset.” 

“And below it—” Wolfgang hesitated a mo¬ 
ment —“ why, below it lies the rest of the world.” 

“ Don’t you want me to put in Toyville and 
Sugar Plum Town? ” inquired Poldi. 

“ Oh, yes, yes,” cried both children; “ isn’t ours 
a pretty kingdom? ” 

“ It is,” admitted Poldi, “ but tell me, where did 
you ever behold the sea? ” 

“ Oh,” replied Wolfgang, “ we are great travel¬ 
ers; we have been everywhere, haven’t we, Nan¬ 
nerl?” 

“Yes,” said she, “and we sailed on the sea 
when we went to England to visit the King and 
Queen.” 

“ Oh, so you visit other kings and queens,” 
teased Poldi. 

But Wolfgang replied quite gravely: “Yes, 
we know them all; the majesties of Germany, of 
England and of France and of other lands besides 
and have played before them all.” 

“ Do you remember the first time we played be¬ 
fore the Emperor?” asked Nannerl, “and how 
you slipped on the waxed floor and the little Arch¬ 
duchess ran and picked you up? ” 

“ I remember,” said Wolfgang, “ but I was 
very young then, only five. But do you remember 
163 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


the time we went in to see the French King and 
the Court at supper? You and Papa stood beside 
the King and Mama and I beside the Queen. 
They gave us sweetmeats and pears and it was a 
great honor.” 

Of course Nannerl remembered it, and the 
lights, more than you could count, and the great 
pictures on the walls and all the royal splendor, 
but Resi now came in saying it was bedtime, and 
presently when the moon looked in through the 
latticed window the room was dark and empty. 

After a while the Herr Kapellmeister Leopold 
Mozart and his wife came home. There on the 
table gleaming white in the moonlight lay the scat¬ 
tered sheets of the oratorio and the father smiled 
with pride as he looked them over, for all the blots 
and the uncertain spelling could not disguise the 
beauty of the music. But the mother stole into 
the bedroom and kissed her little boy who lay fast 
asleep with the map of Ruecken beside his pillow. 

Wolfgang and his father were going on a long 
journey. They were going to Italy, for every 
good musician paid it a visit in those days and now 
that Wolfgang was growing older his father 
thought the time had come for him to go. They 
set out in December, and, oh, but it was cold! 
The snow was piled up high in the mountain 
valleys and the wind whistled around the coach 
and at times threatened to blow it over a precipice. 
But it was always warm and cheery in the road¬ 
side inns and each day brought the South a little 
nearer. 

In the end they passed the last of the frowning 
forts in the pass and came to where Verona lies 
164 



MOZART 


beside the green Adige; they were in Italy. Wolf¬ 
gang heard good music: “ Even the beggars here 

understand it,” said he. Then he showed what 
he could do and everybody from prince to beggar 
was delighted and people no longer called him 
Wolfgang but spoke of him by his last name, as 
is done with great celebrities and henceforth he 
was known to the world as Mozart. 

All the cities wanted Mozart to pay them a visit 
and he went about everywhere. In Milan he com¬ 
posed an opera, in Bologna, where there are so 
many learned people he played his very best, but 
when he came to Venice it was carnival time and 
everybody was expected to make merry. So 
Mozart and his father masked with the rest and 
rode in the gondolas and threw confetti and im¬ 
agined themselves real Venetians. Then came 
Florence and after it Rome. But, oh, dear, the 
journey there was difficult; the roads were bad, 
the inns worse and it was every bit as cold in sunny 
Italy as it was at home. 

They reached Rome on Wednesday in Holy 
Week, and in the midst of a dreadful storm. 

“ Just hear the salutes, we are coming in like 
great folk,” said Mozart. 

“ It is high noon,” said his father, “ and we are 
just in time for the Miserere.” So they hastened 
to the Sistine chapel where every year during Holy 
Week Allegri’s famous composition was sung. 

Mozart sat quite still, drinking in all the beau¬ 
tiful sounds as the four choruses rose and fell and 
in the end swelled to nine. But for all he looked 
so innocent he was chuckling to himself: “ Oho! 
So this is the precious music of which no one is 
165 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


allowed to have a copy. Well, I’ll have one; I 
can remember every note of it.” And sure 
enough, as soon as he got within reach of paper 
and ink, he sat down and wrote it all out. 

“ Oh, oh! ” was all his father could say when 
he saw it, and the two of them could hardly wait 
for Good Friday to come when they would hear it 
again. Mozart carried the music with him and 
hid it in his hat while he corrected a few mistakes 
which had crept in. 

“ It is phenomenal,” said people when they came 
to hear of this remarkable feat of memory, and 
the Pope grew interested and granted the young 
musician an audience and altogether Mozart won 
much praise and added renown. 

An apple-green coat Mozart wore, with rose- 
colored facings and silver buttons, and a gay little 
cavalier was he when he took the air in the splen¬ 
did carriage of one of his princely friends; but he 
was also a very grave maestro who conducted his 
own works and always had something new to 
offer. 

They returned to Salzburg and Mozart grew 
up and his genius grew with him and more and 
more lovely melodies dropped from his fingers. 
But it was no longer a happy world. The bird 
of paradise lived in a cage and beat its wings 
against the bars. It was all the Archbishop’s 
fault; not good Archbishop Sigismund, he was 
dead; but the new one who was not a pleasant 
person. If you were his musician, as Mozart 
was — and his father also — he would expect 
great things but gave you very little praise and 
even less money. As to leave to go on a concert 
166 




MOZART 


tour —“ No,” he would say, “ I will not have my 
people go about begging.” But not a kreutzer 
more would he give you for all that. 

So Mozart hated beautiful Salzburg and the 
castle on the hill and even the mountains. “ To 
think that I wanted mountains in my kingdom of 
Ruecken. Mountains shut you in; it is to ‘the 
rest of the world * that I turn now. Ah, you are 
so free out there! ” Then he went to his father. 
“ Father,” said he, “ I can never amount to any¬ 
thing if I stay on here. I must get away.” 

“ My son,” replied his father, “ get away you 
must, but this is not the time for a change. Be 
patient therefore yet a little longer.” 

“ I’ll try,” said Mozart, but not very hopefully. 
And, alas, it was not long before he came again to 
his father crying: “ I have done it! His Grace 
was most ungracious to-day; he called me names 
and said my music was bad. I was ugly too and 
told him I was ready to go. ‘ Pack yourself off, 
then, and at once! * shouted he, and now I am 
free.” 

“ Yes, you will have to go away now,” sighed 
Mozart’s father. And he thought within himself, 
“How shall we manage it? The boy cannot 
travel alone, he knows nothing about money and 
would lose half his things if he tried to pack his 
trunk. I may not go with hirn, his mother — 
yes, that will be the way, she will take the best 
care of him — she must go.” 

So Mozart’s mother packed the trunks and kept 
the purse and they set out in the stage coach along 
the road which led to “ the rest of the world.” 
Mother waved a last farewell to father and Nan- 
167 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


nerl and looked back lovingly at fast-vanishing 
Salzburg, which she was never again to see, but 
Mozart exulted like a bird set free. 

Yes, they rolled about the world in their coach 
but the good old days were no more. The kings 
and queens who used to come down from their 
thrones to play with the little wonder child were 
all gone — perhaps back to fairyland — and the 
courtiers and great people smiled coldly; the young 
man might be a genius, oh, yes; but that was not 
amusing and they wanted to be entertained. 
However, the world was not all gloom; it held 
pleasures and hope as well as disappointment and 
tears, and there was also some sort of living to be 
got from it. “ And fame must follow,” thought 
Mozart; but first came tears, for his dear mother 
fell ill and died in a strange country, far from 
home. 

Mozart came home to Salzburg. His father 
was there and Nannerl and they did all they could 
to make each other happy, but the Archbishop 
dominated Salzburg; you could not be a musician 
there without him and he was more disagreeable 
than ever. “ Let us all three go to Vienna,” said 
Mozart, but this could not be and he went alone. 

But he wanted a home. Home had always 
been so pleasant and he had never been without 
some loved one beside him to comfort and cheer 
and spur him on. Then he saw pretty Constanze 
and straightway knew that she would do. So they 
set up housekeeping on hope and nothing a year, 
much to the distress of all prudent people and of 
Mozart’s father in particular, who feared for 
genius fettered. But no, the new operas and sym- 
168 



MOZART 


phonies and concertos were all the better for Con- 
stanze’s smiles and wise little nods of approba¬ 
tion. 

Living on nothing a year is sometimes hard. 
“ Still, the sparrow’s housetop freedom is more 
endurable than the canary’s caged ease,” said 
Mozart, thinking of Salzburg and the Archbishop. 
And Constanze was very nice about it; if there was 
nothing to eat in the house she was quite as cheer¬ 
ful as she was when a lot of golden ducats came 
in and she was going to have a party. If there 
happened to be no wood for the firing she would 
run in, pull Mozart up from his chair and waltz 
about with him until they both could laugh at the 
cold. Or she told stories to keep Mozart awake 
while he wrote out a belated score; yes, Constanze 
did very well. 

Spring flowers stood in the open window, 
Mozart hung the starling’s cage above them. 
“ Come, Constanze,” cried he as the bird began 
to pipe, “ come and listen to the new bird’s lovely 
notes.” 

Constanze laughed merrily. “ Why, he is 
whistling the new concerto in G major, which you 
played last month in the concert.” 

u He is; and that’s why I bought him.” 

Starlings were whistling Mozart’s newest music; 
was it not time for Fame to appear? Yes, she 
felt like coming in but she suddenly remembered 
that it is better for genius to win its crown slowly; 
laurels too easily gained are too soon faded and 
for Mozart this must not be. But she glanced 
again at the earnest young face and the frail form 
then, “ It will not be long before the crown is 
169 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


yours,” she whispered softly and closed the door. 
Mozart looked up; he may have heard. 

Years came and went, bringing good days and 
evil, and Mozart often said, “ It will not be long.” 

“ You are working too hard, rest a little,” ad¬ 
vised his friends, but “ I must work all the 
harder,” was his only reply. 

One day as the light was failing the gray man 
stood before him. His long coat hid his form, 
his hat covered his eyes. “ Can you write me a 
mass for the dead?” asked he in hollow tones. 
Mozart nodded. “ By December? ” whispered 
the man in gray. Mozart nodded again. The 
gray man turned, he vanished away, but on the 
table lay a heap of shining ducats. 

“ December, December,” exclaimed Mozart in 
sudden fear; “it is my own requiem that I am 
asked to write.” 

“No, no, ghostly messengers do not leave 
golden ducats,” said Constanze, trying to comfort 
him. “ Think of your Magic Flute and the new 
opera for the coronation at Prague; this money 
will come handy for the journey.” 

“ He will forget all about it, once we are on the 
way,” thought Constanze; but just as they were 
about to step into the coach, there stood the gray 
man beside it. “ December; do not forget,” said 
he, and was gone. 

There was no time for requiems and sad 
thoughts at the coronation. Mozart had to con¬ 
duct his opera and nobody could escape the balls 
and parties. But once more back in Vienna he 
set to work upon the Requiem and the Magic 
Flute, “ the one for myself, the other for my 




MOZART 


fame,” said he. And when December came, both 
were ended and Mozart’s life was done. 

Then people said: “What a great genius he 
was.” 

“ No, is,” said Fame, and laid the laurel crown 
upon his bier, and behold, its leaves are fresh and 
green to this very day. 


171 




OF AN ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL 
SIR GALAHAD 


Into the good green wood rode Sir Galahad. 
It was after the adventure of the white shield and 
his parting with Sir Melias. He rode alone on his 
milk-white charger and the spell of the forest was 
all about him. Little flowers, red, purple and 
gold, made gay the path like to the painted border 
of a Book of Hours; a tiny snake glided through 
the moss, blue-winged moths fanned the air — ah, 
few such quiet hours as this had Sir Galahad 
known since he had gone forth on his quest. Nor 
would it be for long; beyond the wood waited the 
adventure of the Maidens’ Castle and Sir Melias, 
too, would need succor since his exploit must end 
to his hurt; Sir Galahad knew it well, but now for 
a space he might throw back his helmet and feel 
the cool touch of the beech leaves on his cheeks. 

Young was the knight for all his fame, and it 
might have been but yesterday that good King 
Pelleas called the lad Galahad, his grandson, be¬ 
fore him and said: “ My Galahad, the time has 
come when you must leave behind your childhood 
and go forth into the world and fulfil your des¬ 
tiny. Yours is the quest of the Holy Grail and 
even this night comes hither Sir Lancelot, that he 
may knight you. Then must you away to King 
Arthur’s court, there to sit at the Table Round, 
172 



SIR GALAHAD 
Watts 

















































AN ADVENTURE 


after which begins your quest.” Thus spoke King 
Pelleas and it all came to pass as he said. And 
after Sir Lancelot had again departed, those in the 
castle clothed the young knight in a scarlet robe 
and over it put a cunningly wrought suit of armor, 
but shield and sword they had none to give him. 
Thus went he forth and with him rode a venerable 
guide and a train of knights and squires. 

Now in this time King Arthur was holding his 
court in the high hall at Camelot and with him sat 
many knights about the Table Round. And none 
sat above the other nor below, for there was 
neither head nor foot at the Table Round; all 
knights were equal there. Yet was there one seat 
at the board where none might sit. The Siege 
Perilous it was called and King Arthur’s bravest 
knights quailed before the strange characters 
carven upon it; for dire his fate who was not free 
from sin and yet would dare to choose it for his 
own. 

Now into the hall came a venerable man and a 
youth in armor. And when the armor was re¬ 
moved there stood Sir Galahad, like a king’s son, 
clad in red and with ermine on his mantle. And 
the old man would not tarry nor tell his name, but 
departed with the train, leaving Sir Galahad stand¬ 
ing there alone. Then went Sir Galahad to the 
empty seat, even the Siege Perilous and sat him 
down and great was the marvel thereat, for no 
harm befell him, nay, his name appeared there in 
bright letters even as the names of the others were 
written on their seats. And King Arthur was 
glad and yet sorrowful; glad because the blameless 
knight, Sir Galahad sat at the Table Round, and 
173 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


sorrowful because he knew that many of his 
knights would go forth on the quest of the Holy 
Grail and but few of them return. 

And the King spake words of welcome to the 
knight and seeing that he had no sword but wore 
only an empty scabbard at his belt, “ Sir Galahad,” 
said he: “there came floating down the stream 
this day a stone wherein was cleft a sword me- 
thinks would well become your scabbard. On the 
bank beneath our castle walls lodged the stone, yet 
might none draw forth the sword though there be 
those among us strong of arm.” 

“ Yes,” said Sir Galahad, “ my sword must I 
find here at Camelot.” Then went they down to 
where lay the stone and lo, when Sir Galahad put 
forth his hand the sword sprang forward at his 
touch, whereat again there was great marvel. 

Now had Sir Galahad a sword but wanted yet 
a shield; nor would he have one of King Arthur’s 
offering for his own white shield with the red cross 
was still at the white abbey and the adventure 
thereof was yet to come. However he did great 
feats of valor in the lists all shieldless that he was, 
for in the time that Sir Galahad bided at King 
Arthur’s court there were feasts and tourneys in 
plenty and the Queen and her ladies looked on 
from a tower and crowned the victors. 

The King and all his knights sat one eve at meat 
about the Table Round when of a sudden the 
torches flickered out and darkness fell upon the 
place. There was heard a sound of rushing wind 
and of thunder, after which a great white light 
shone forth and the Holy Grail, covered with a 
pall, passed through the air. Yet might the 
174 




AN ADVENTURE 


knights not see it for the dazzling rays which 
blinded them. But when it had passed, sweet 
odors filled the hall and a delicate feast appeared 
upon the board. Then exclaimed many of the 
knights and took oath that they would go forth to 
seek the Holy Grail nor ever return until they had 
beheld it. 

“ Alas, sirs, ye do not well,” cried King Arthur, 
sadly, “ for few of you shall see this holy thing 
and fewer still return and never more shall we 
meet about the Table Round.” 

But the knights went forth and Sir Galahad 
rode to the white abbey and won his shield and he 
departed from Sir Melias and now for a space he 
rode alone. 

. . . And Sir Galahad lost the path. The trees 
stood closer together and their tall trunks rose like 
columns and so many and so old were they that 
their tops shut out the sun and the knight fancied 
himself in some great minster. He dismounted 
and led his horse. Hark! was that far-away 
music, or was it the wind in the tree tops which 
made those sounds? Deeper grew the wood and 
more wild; brush and brambles and pointed rocks 
threatened Sir Galahad, who undaunted laughed 
them to scorn and would not turn back. Then on 
a sudden there came forth a great bear and barred 
the way with fierce growls and lifted paws. The 
knight drew his sword but the spirit af the wood 
ruled him and he let fall his arm to his side say¬ 
ing: “ No; here in this peaceful wood I will not 
slay. Go, uncouth creature, back to thy den; here 
is sanctuary from all violence.” Then dropped 
the shaggy monster to all fours and the wicked 
175 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


gleam died out of his little eyes, while all the rocks 
and brambles turned to mossy banks and nodding 
ferns. Sir Galahad went on leading his charger, 
but the bear followed meekly behind, and so they 
fared until they came to where in the narrow path 
stood a grisly wolf. 

“ Ah,” thought Sir Galahad, “ there must be 
some enchantment near, that these beasts rise thus 
before me at every turn.” Yet did he not essay 
to slay the wolf nor spake he any word, but step¬ 
ping forward, cowed the snarling creature with a 
look; for strange eyes had Sir Galahad, quiet and 
dark as some mountain pool and yet keenly bright 
as flashing steel, and no evil might mirror there. 

Then the wolf fell behind following with the 
bear, but Sir Galahad went first leading his white 
charger. In this wise had they proceeded but a 
little way when a fawn issued from the shadows. 
For a moment it stood timid and afraid, then sud¬ 
denly it sprang forward and laid its head against 
Sir Galahad’s hand after which it led the way 
to a clearing wherein stood a ruined tower. 
“ Hoot! ” cried the owl from the ivied wall, but 
Sir Galahad looked and wondered, for how came 
the little garden there ? In it were sage and 
thyme and bergamot and tall white lilies standing 
in a row. 

From the ruin came a doleful sound, the voice 
of one in distress or pain, and Sir Galahad, draw¬ 
ing near, beheld what seemed once to have been a 
human habitation, but a beam had fallen and with 
it part of the roof and the sky looked in upon the 
poverty within. And an old woman was tugging 
at the beam and trying to lift it and she sighed and 
176 




AN ADVENTURE 


lamented sorely, for her strength was not enough 
to move it. 

“ Oh,” thought Sir Galahad, “ a witch! ” For 
never before had he seen an old woman like this. 
His grandmother, the Queen, was silver haired 
beneath her golden crown and his nurse had been 
an ancient lady, but old crones, bent and ugly and 
poor, had never dared to cross his path. And 
witches had power to harm even a brave knight, 
indeed, an encounter with a lion might be less 
dangerous. But the witch turned her head and 
Sir Galahad looked into eyes as frightened and 
timid as the fawn’s. Dear me, here was no witch 
only another wild creature of the woods. Then 
Sir Galahad, being wise beyond his years, loosed 
his horse’s bridle and laying aside his shining 
armor, stood there clad in white. And he entered 
the ruin and with his strength lifted up the fallen 
beam and set it in place. “ Now, Granny,” cried 
he, “ some stout branches and a thatch of moss 
and all will be well.” Then sprang he to cut 
willow wands and oak boughs and the old woman 
at his behest brought moss and together they wove 
and twisted and thatched until the roof was sound 
and whole. 

Sir Galahad sat outside the door to rest and the 
old woman baked an oatcake on a hot stone and 
brought of her slender store nuts and honey to 
refresh him. The beasts followed her about and 
a dove perched on her shoulder and ever as she 
came and went she gazed in wonder at the knight, 
so young and fair and with raiment all unsmirched 
by his toil. Such as she might not approach his 
kind, why even in the market town beyond the 
177 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


wood the farm wives drew away from her when 
she dared to sit beside them, so lowly and despised 
was she, and now a knight had done her a kind 
deed and spoken words as kind; it must be a vision 
that would surely fade away. 

Yet had her grandsire been a knight and in this 
very tower her mother had been cradled beneath 
a silken coverlet. But there came a foe by stealth 
and the castle was taken and all within slain and 
only the babe escaped in its nurse’s arms. A beg¬ 
gar she grew up in the great city where none knew 
her lineage and by the church door she sat and 
asked alms for herself and the aged nurse. She 
married a soldier who was lost in the great war 
and when the city fell she fled with her child to 
the wood and lived and died in the old tower 
where she was born. And the child grew up a 
wood creature cunning and shy and innocent, wise 
in plant lore and healing and the friend of birds 
and beasts. The good hermit knew her and the 
goatherds but not many beside. Slow of speech 
was she and of few words and awe of the knight 
held her mute, so that but little could he guess of 
her story, but the good hermit after told him all. 

Now on the air came a sound, faint and far 
away, but surely the sound of a bell; Sir Galahad 
looked up. “ The hermit,” said the old woman, 
pointing to where a narrow path led into the 
shadows. 

Then Sir Galahad again buckled on his armor 
and took his horse by the bridle. “ Farewell, 
Granny,” said he and went his way. 

“ Hoot! ” cried the owl after him, but the old 
woman, still lost in wonder, sat before the ruin 
178 



AN ADVENTURE 


among her beasts, and the lilies in her garden 
shone like stars in the evening light. 

That night Sir Galahad abode with the good 
hermit. Much converse held they together, both 
on things spiritual and things worldly, but when 
the moon stood high and white above the t r ees 
they sought their rest. And Sir Galahad in his 
sleep still pursued his quest. He dreamed of the 
ship in which he must sail over strange seas; and 
in the ship were wonders and a silver table upon 
which stood the Holy Grail all covered with red 
samite. Then came he to a foreign land and he 
wore a crown, for he was king there, and in this 
place came to him the fulfilment of his quest. 
Then he awoke for it was morning and he must 
leave the wood and seek Sir Melias, who had re¬ 
ceived a grievous hurt. 

And many and great were the achievements of 
Sir Galahad and men knew of them and put them 
in the chronicles, but of this adventure in the wood 
they said never a word, for none knew it but Sir 
Galahad, and he never told. 


179 




EARLY DAYS IN CINCINNATI 


For days and days the boat had been coming 
up the river and the passengers had grown weary 
of watching the silent, wooded hills and counting 
the bear brakes in the thickets along the banks. 
But now the boatman wound his horn and the hills 
softly re-echoed the call; the city was near. 

Yes, out of the wilderness rose roofs and chim¬ 
neys and before the broad landing-place lay many 
boats. The passengers crowded on deck to see 
and the people on shore waved a welcome and all 
was bustle and confusion. 

“ Oh, but, Mother,” cried one of the English 
lady’s little girls, “ what a strange flat city; there 
are neither towers nor steeples! ” 

“ No, dear,” replied the English lady, “ but you 
must not forget that this is a very young city, and 
that many of its people are older than the town.” 

“Oh, oh!” thought Shobal Clevenger, who 
stood on the landing and heard them. “ If they 
had come from my home back in the hills they 
would think this a fine big place; some of those 
old towns must be wonderful indeed.” 

The fine people all came down from the boat 
and went into the hotel, but Shobal Clevenger 
turned up towards the town. He had come to seek 
his fortune in Cincinnati and he must set about to 
find the way. The red brick pavements looked 
180 


EARLY DAYS IN CINCINNATI 


very nice but to a lad used to soft country paths 
they proved hard to walk upon, and the middle of 
the street was much more comfortable. 

“ Yes,” mused he as he went along, “ these city 
people are all rich, and perhaps some day I, too, 
shall own one of these splendid stores and live in a 
big house like the one at the corner.” And think¬ 
ing of these things, Shobal Clevenger felt that they 
were already his, whereat he gave a leap for joy. 

But alas, he came to earth with a sudden shock, 
for he did not see the big pig in his path. And 
the pig, having discovered a nice lot of potato 
parings in the street, was not minded to turn out 
for any pedestrian, so with a shout and a squeal 
they both went down together. 

“ Ho, ho! ” cried a voice, whereupon Shobal 
Clevenger sprang up and rubbed his knee, but the 
pig, with a grunt, went back to the potato parings. 

“ Ho, ho! ” cried the voice again and a merry 
face peeped through the door of a workshed. 
“ Star gazing seldom pays; what did you expect to 
find in the clouds? ” 

“ Work, I suppose,” replied Clevenger, with a 
rueful grin for the knee still ached. “ At least 
that is what it should have been, for it is what I 
need.” 

“ How would you like to help me with mine? ” 
Shobal Clevenger approached the shed door and 
looked within. All about lay blocks of marble; 
against the walls stood rows of crosses and tomb¬ 
stones with here and there an angel or a lamb. # 

“ I think I should like it very much,” said 
Shobal, with his eyes on one of the angels, and so 
he became a marble cutter. 

181 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


It was a sickly season and the new graveyard 
was fast filling with tombstones and Shobal Clev¬ 
enger and his master chipped and chiseled from 
morning until night. Shobal learned to round a 
stone and cut scrolls and hour-glasses, but angels 
were much harder to do. Still this did not keep 
him from trying — on a spoiled piece of marble 
at first — on a better piece after. A passer-by 
stopped to look on: “Very good,” said he to 
himself, “ I must keep an eye on this boy; he seems 
talented.” 

Yes, there was no doubt about it, Shobal Clev¬ 
enger had the making of a sculptor and the kind 
gentleman decided to help him a little. He sat 
for his bust and encouraged him to go to the new 
academy of arts, and when the English lady paid 
the academy a visit there sat the country lad bend¬ 
ing over a drawing board. 

“ She is from London,” whispered Hiram 
Powers who sat beside him, “ and she is building 
the bazar on Third Street.” 

“What is a bazar?” asked Shobal, who was 
always eager to learn. 

“ It is a place where they sell all manner of fine 
things; cups and jewels and rugs and the like. 
This one is to have a concert hall and a tea room 
too,” explained Hiram Powers who knew all about 
it. 

“ Oh,” said Shobal Clevenger, and later, when 
the bazar was finished, he cried “Oh!” again, 
for it was a most fanciful structure with pointed 
windows, “ Just like a church,” thought he,— and 
odd ornaments all along the top. And inside 
there were many wonders, but the best of all was 
182 




EARLY DAYS IN CINCINNATI 


a wall painting of General Lafayette and other 
famous men, for the celebrated Frenchman had 
visited Cincinnati some time before and the pic¬ 
ture was to help people remember it. 

“ Indeed,” said Shobal Clevenger, “ I must talk 
this over with some one and I think I’ll hunt up 
Hiram Powers. I haven’t seen him since he left 
the academy and went to work in the museum.” 

Shobal was becoming quite used to city ways by 
this time and could walk with ease on the brick 
pavements. So he went along until he came to the 
museum where Hiram Powers had found work. 
The door was open and nobody was in sight, so 
Shobal boldly entered and wandered about among 
long rows of glass cases filled with bones and stones 
and earthen pots and jars, but never a soul was 
there to be seen. However, the sound of voices 
came from somewhere above and a flight of stairs 
rising before him, up he went. 

At the top he found another open door and a 
large dim-lighted room. But oh, what was this? 
Iron bars rose on every side and behind them — 
what were those strange wild figures? Shobal 
Clevenger looked and feared, and impelled by 
curiosity looked again. Oh, and oh, and oh! no 
wonder there were iron bars. Peering through 
them, scarcely a foot away, was a hideous dwarf 
with a great head and a hump and yes — his eyes 
shot flames and — and — why he was changing 
— he spread and grew and was no longer a dwarf 
but a horrid giant with his head touching the ceil¬ 
ing. Shobal Clevenger turned faint, you could 
have knocked him down with a feather. But he 
was thankful for those bars. Then the other 
183 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


cages became animated; great serpents twisted and 
writhed, human figures turned into trees; monsters 
crouched among rocks and red and green lights 
revealed one dreadful shape after the other. 
Shobal Clevenger turned to flee from the spot when 
a cheerful voice cried out: “ That last effect was 
splendid; it will prove a great success,” and Hiram 
Powers and the museum manager walked into the 
room. 

“ Ha! ” cried they both when they beheld the 
visitor and Hiram added, “ Why, if it isn’t Shobal 
Clevenger! ” 

But Shobal could only stammer, “ Oh, Hiram, 
those monsters! ” 

“ Yes, I am proud of them,” replied Hiram 
Powers. “ I am their creator.” 

“ You? ” exclaimed his friend. 

“ Indeed, yes,” laughed the other, “ and I am 
almost ashamed to confess that they are really 
nothing but wax figures.” 

“ I thought—” began Shobal. 

“ I know,” interrupted Hiram; “ you mean what 
has become of my plan of being a sculptor. I still 
hope to be one; meanwhile I am modeling in wax 
instead of clay and, after all, the old sculptors did 
the same. But come, let me show you around.” 

So Shobal Clevenger learned the secret that 
turned dwarfs into giants and men into trees, and 
he forgot all about the English lady’s bazar until 
he was once more well on the way home. 

Shobal Clevenger and Hiram Powers climbed 
one of the many hills behind the town and wan¬ 
dered about in the autumn woods. The trees 
were golden and brown and through their branches 
184 




EARLY DAYS IN CINCINNATI 


could be seen the flowing river and the boats going 
up and down. 

“ I must go too,” said Hiram Powers thought¬ 
fully. “ My home lies among other hills far be¬ 
yond the mountains, but I must go farther still, 
across the ocean to Italy, where all the lovely 
statues are, for I shall never become famous if I 
linger here.” 

“ Oh,” sighed Shobal, “ and you are even now a 
much better sculptor than I can ever hope to be.” 

“ You are younger, that is all,” declared Hiram. 
“ Some day you too, will want to go to the places 
beyond the mountains. As to our work, no one 
can tell what we both may yet do.” 

The English lady, too, was in the hillside woods 
that day and she had a picnic lunch there and 
afterwards wrote about the gay colors of the trees 
in her book. On her way home she passed the 
two lads, but she did not know that she should 
have put them into her book too. 

And now Hiram Powers was gone, not quite to 
Italy as yet, but to Washington, where he made 
busts of all the famous people there and won much 
renown. The English lady, too, went away. 
Her bazar had not turned out well and she was 
very much displeased with Cincinnati and said so 
in her famous book. 

Shobal Clevenger, however, still liked the pleas¬ 
ant town and saw it grow with pride. New houses 
went up so fast you could hardly count them and 
the boats brought more and more people every 
day. As to the landing-place, it was so crowded 
with sugar and cocoanuts and watermelons coming 
from the South, and boxes and barrels of lard and 
185 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


pork going to England, that you hardly dared 
venture there. 

And Shobal Clevenger grew with the town; he 
was no longer a marble cutter but a sculptor. He 
had a studio and so many great people came to 
sit for their portraits that the fine house of his 
dreams might yet be his. 

“ But this will not do,” said he. “ I must get 
out into the world and learn more about my art.” 
So over the mountains he went and lived for a 
time in Washington where he modeled busts of 
more great men. But what he wanted was not 
there, nor was it in New York; he must try and 
find it overseas. 

And when he was in Italy among all the beau¬ 
tiful statues, he was glad, for surely they would 
teach him much. And he met Hiram Powers. 
“ Who would have thought that we should tread 
these stones together,” said Hiram, “ and do you 
know, the English lady is here too; we must go 
visit her. But first come and see what I have been 
doing.” 

When they entered the studio Shobal rubbed his 
eyes at sight of all the white splendor there. 
Could it be that these fair shapes were the work 
of Hiram Powers? The same Hiram who had 
once modeled wax figures for the museum in far¬ 
away Cincinnati? “Ah,” said Shobal at length, 
“ they are indeed lovely, but I like the ‘ Greek 
Slave ’ best of all.” 

“ Most people do,” replied Hiram, “ but I my¬ 
self, am very fond of my ‘ Eve.’ ” 

“ Oh, yes, she is very good,” said Shobal, “ but 
I think that people will call the ‘ Greek Slave ’ 
186 




EARLY DAYS IN CINCINNATI 


your masterpiece,” and he was right, for so they 
do to this day. 

As to the English lady, she was still writing 
books and growing rich over it. She made Shobal 
welcome and inquired about Cincinnati. “ I am 
a little sorry that I said unkind things about the 
city,” declared she, “ but they were meant for its 
own good. They tell me, though, that the place 
has changed in the ten years that I have been 
away.” 

“ Indeed, it has,” Shobal Clevenger made haste 
to assure her. “ The canal has helped it grow 
and I think your scolding did it no harm, for 
famous travelers from overseas have come to take 
a look at it and its name has been in many mouths.” 

But Shobal had work to do, so he bade farewell 
to his friends and their pleasant city of Florence 
and went on his way to Rome, where he set up his 
studio. Those were happy days for the young 
sculptor; he modeled in clay and he chiseled in 
marble and then one day an American Indian came 
to join the proud array of statues in the old city 
beside the Tiber. “ A bit of home,” cried the 
Americans when they saw the splendid figure and 
they felt proud when the Romans came to admire 
it. 

“ Yes,” said the Romans, “ Hiram Powers’ 
‘ Greek Slave ’ may be more beautiful, but this is 
different; it may truly be called the first piece of 
American sculpture,” and they came again and 
again to view it. 

Other figures grew in the studio and many busts, 
and they may still be seen in the cities of Shobal 
Clevenger’s home land, for it happened that one 
187 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


by one they found their way over the sea. And 
presently the sculptor himself began to long for 
home; the yellow Tiber reminded him of the 
broader yellow Ohio; when he looked at the hills, 
he said, “ There are hills at home too,” and when 
the wind blew in January he shivered and wrote to 
his friend, Hiram Powers: 

“ Do you remember how we skated on the ponds 
in Cincinnati, and what fun the boys had coasting 
down Third Street hill? I did not mind the cold 
then, but now I wish for a splendid log fire and 
biscuits and molasses.” 

But the longing and the marble dust together 
made Shobal Clevenger ill and he laid down his 
tools and said: “ I must go home.” His friends 

shook their heads for it was a long journey over 
the sea, but they went with him to the ship and 
waved a last adieu as it sped away over the foam. 
Shobal Clevenger’s work was done and his friends 
knew it. His statues might go home but the 
young sculptor himself lies buried in the waves 
that wash the shores of the Old World. 


188 










PERSEUS 

Cellini 











BENVENUTO AND HIS PERSEUS 


Benvenuto, the goldsmith, had made a model 
of wax and he proudly showed it to Duke Cosimo. 
“ Ah,” said the Duke, looking hard at the little 
figure, “ winged sandals and cap, Mercury, of 
course.” 

“ Not exactly,” explained Benvenuto, “ but an 
excusable mistake, for the cap and sandals are in¬ 
deed Mercury’s; Perseus borrowed them when he 
went, out against the Medusa. See, that is the 
monster at his feet and he is holding the severed 
head in his hand.” 

“ To be sure,” laughed Duke Cosimo, “ and, 
now I remember, this is to be the Perseus which 
you are to make for me in bronze.” 

“ Yes,” replied Benvenuto, “ it is; and if Your 
Excellency will also remember about the house —” 

“ But, my Benvenuto,” interrupted the Duke, 
who thought he knew all about art, for in those 
days you were not the right sort of king or duke 
unless you had an art collection and a host of 
artists working for you —“ my Benvenuto, this 
figure cannot succeed in bronze; the art will not 
allow it. I have taken pains to inform myself and 
I understand all about it.” 

“ Yes, Your Excellency, as a patron but not as 
artist,” replied Benvenuto, who expected the Duke 
to admire and not to criticise. 

189 


OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


“ But tell me, Benvenuto,” persisted Duke Cos- 
imo, “ how is it possible for that fine head of 
Medusa which Perseus holds so high in his hand, 
to come out well ? ” 

“ Oh, my Lord,” protested Benvenuto, “ it is 
the foot and not the head that I feel anxious about. 
It is the nature of fire to mount and therefore the 
head of Medusa will result well, but because it is 
not the nature of fire to go downwards and since it 
has to be driven downwards by force of art, for 
this reason I tell Your Excellency that it is impos¬ 
sible for that foot to come out perfectly in the 
casting, although it will be an easy matter to repair 
it.” 

“ We shall see,” said the duke, shaking his 
head, “ we shall see,” and he went away, followed 
by his courtiers, all shaking their heads and look¬ 
ing twice as disdainful and displeased as their lord. 

“ Alas! ” cried Benvenuto, gloomily, “ had I 
but stayed in Paris with good King Francis. He 
gave me a fine palace for workshop without my 
asking and here I have to beg for a modest house. 
But what was I to do? I had to come back to 
Florence to take care of my poor sister and her six 
young daughters and our Duke bade me work for 
him. He means well, does the Duke, but he lends 
an ear to every comer. I know that envious 
Bandinelli is at the bottom of it all; just because 
he spoils all that good marble, he pretends that I 
cannot work in bronze. I feel like giving the 
whole thing up and going back to France.” 

Benvenuto said as much to the Duke the next 
time he saw him, but the Lord of Florence was not 
minded to allow the King of France to rob him of 
190 



BENVENUTO AND HIS PERSEUS 


his artist, so he told Benvenuto not to, think of 
leaving but to make all possible haste with the 
Perseus which he felt sure would be the finest 
statue in the square and he was most anxious to see 
it there. Now Donatello’s Judith and Michel¬ 
angelo’s David stood in the square before the pal¬ 
ace and Benvenuto felt proud to think that his 
work should be deemed worthy of a place beside 
them. To be sure, he was not quite pleased that 
his rival Bandinelli was to have the same honor, 
but the Duke considered Bandinelli an excellent 
sculptor and very much admired his great statue 
of Neptune, even though Benvenuto laughed at it. 

And the Duke gave Benvenuto the house. “ It 
is yours,” said he, “ but why not come and do your 
work in the palace, I should like to watch you at 
it.” 

But, “ No,” said Benvenuto, “ I need too much 
space for all my furnaces and workrooms, and 
Your Excellency would soon wish me away. But 
in the new house there will be room in in the gar¬ 
den for the furnaces for clay and bronze; other 
smaller furnaces can be set up indoors and I shall 
still have a couple of rooms left for my gold¬ 
smith’s work,” for Benvenuto was the greatest of 
goldsmiths and loved the work and even his ambi¬ 
tion to be considered a sculptor could not lessen 
his affection for it. 

“ Very well, then,” said Duke Cosimo, “ do as 
you will, only let me have the Perseus without de¬ 
lay.” 

“ And don’t forget my golden girdle,” said the 
Duchess, who did not care for the statue at all 
and would not permit it to interfere with her de- 
191 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


sire for the pretty things in gold and silver which 
Benvenuto could fashion with such grace and skill. 

The Duchess was a great lady and had never 
heard of “ no,” sot Benvenuto, although he 
grumbled, designed the girdle and set his appren¬ 
tices to work upon it. Then he went into the gar¬ 
den, for the furnace must be constructed at once. 
“What a wilderness!” cried he aghast, “these 
grapevines and trees must come away,” and in his 
impatient eagerness he began to cut them down 
with great energy. In the end, however, he found 
it easier to call in a couple of men to complete the 
task and to clear out the weeds and nettles, after 
which the workshop was erected and the furnace 
put in place. It was an excellent furnace and the 
figure of Medusa, the first piece cast therein, re¬ 
sulted most beautifully, “ And it was a difficult 
figure to cast, too,” said Benvenuto. All this time 
and long before, the clays had been ripening and 
getting into fit condition to be used for the mould 
of the Perseus. Benvenuto now built up the 
figure of clay over a framework of iron, and as he 
had done with the Medusa, made it thinner by the 
breadth of half a finger than the finished statue 
was to be. After he had baked this model he 
brought it up to its proper dimensions by covering 
it with wax. “ And now, my Perseus, you are 
ready for your tunic,” said Benvenuto, as he began 
to enfold the figure in its outer covering of soft 
clay and to girdle it about with iron supports. 
Every now and then he made a small opening in 
the clay: “ These air holes will allow the melted 
wax to run out,” said he to his workmen, “ and 
the more holes you make the better the mould will 
192 



BENVENUTO AND HIS PERSEUS 


fill. Now for the fire to withdraw the wax; — 
Hold! not so much wood, we need only a gentle 
fire for this.” 

“ Good,” said Benvenuto, when the wax was all 
out, “ now take these bricks and build an oven all 
about the form, and be sure to leave sufficient open¬ 
ings through which the fire may escape.” The 
men worked with a will; in fact, you could not do 
otherwise when Benvenuto was around, and the 
oven was soon completed and wood brought for 
the lighting. The fire had to be kept up two days 
and two nights after which the form came out 
quite hard and ready to receive the bronze. First, 
however, it had to be lifted from the oven into the 
ditch prepared for it and this was accomplished by 
means of ropes and levers. Once in position it 
was firmly walled in and supplied with numerous 
air holes made of baked clay. “ Keep at it, keep 
at it! ” cried Benvenuto to his men who were pro¬ 
ceeding entirely to his satisfaction; “I must see 
to the furnace.” This had been filled with lumps 
of copper and pieces of bronze, piled up in such 
a manner that the heat might the more quickly 
melt them and cause them to liquify. “ Quick, 
light the fire! ” cried Benvenuto, piling on some 
resinous pine wood and starting a great blaze. 
Back and forth, on this side and on that, watching 
and feeding the fire, ran the master and after him 
the men, all sweating and panting and out of breath 
but never for an instant ceasing their work. But 
the fierce flames set fire to the workshop roof and 
it threatened to fall in. At the same time a 
thunder storm broke over the city and torrents of 
rain dashed against the furnace from the garden 
193 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


end and cooled it off. “ The bronze is melting, 
more wood, more wood, keep up the fire! ” cried 
Benvenuto, running hither and thither. But sud¬ 
denly he stopped; a burning fever came upon him 
and he could no longer work. Turning to his 
men, ten in all, master bronze founders, laborers, 
peasants and the men from his workshop, he ad¬ 
dressed his chief workman saying: “ Look you, 
my Bernardino, I have shown you how to pro¬ 
ceed; the metal will soon be ripe and if you follow 
the rules properly you cannot make a mistake. 
These other worthy men will make the channels 
and with these two bars of iron you can open the 
two holes and release the metal. I am certain 
that the mould will fill as it should. I feel more 
ill than ever in all my life before and I believe 
that in a few hours all will be over with me.” 
With this, Benvenuto left, very unhappy in spirit 
and betook himself to bed. Calling to his house¬ 
keeper, he desired her to send the maids to the 
workshop with some lunch for the men, telling her 
at the same time that he would not live to see the 
morrow. His women folk, however, tried to 
cheer him up and assured him that he would get 
over it and that it was only over-exertion which 
made him feel so ill. But Benvenuto grew worse 
and worse and tossed about in his bed for a couple 
of hours. Then his fever brought on a vision — 
Benvenuto was given to visions and often imagined 
he saw strange things. This time it was a queer 
little man, as bent and crooked as the letter S. 
This strange figure began to lament: “Poor 
Benvenuto, your work is spoiled and nothing in 
the world can help it now! ” At this Benvenuto 
194 



BENVENUTO AND HIS PERSEUS 


uttered a great cry and leaping from his bed, he 
began to dress in great haste. When his house¬ 
keeper and the others would have helped him he 
struck at them and drove them off with blows, cry¬ 
ing and groaning most bitterly all the while. 
Then he rushed to the workshop and oh! oh! what 
a sight met his eyes! There stood his workers, 
pale faced and trembling and there was the fur¬ 
nace half dead and the metal a solid cake. 

“ You did not obey orders,” roared Benvenuto. 
“ Each man to his place and obey them now.” 

“ What you ask is impossible and contrary to 
the rules of the art,” ventured one of the master 
founders, but Benvenuto turned on him in such a 
rage that the rest all cried: “Tell us what to 
do, Master, we will obey you in everything.” 

“ Quick, then,” cried Benvenuto; “ run to neigh¬ 
bor Capretta, the butcher, and ask him for the 
seasoned oak wood which his wife told me I might 
have; oak makes a fierce fire, ha! see how the 
metal quickens to life, how it sparkles and glows! 
Here, you others, up to the roof! Don’t you see 
that it has caught fire again? Get some boards 
and carpets and shut out that rain before the fur¬ 
nace cools off the second time. Come and help 
me with the channels,” and he infused so much of 
his own spirit into those about him that they did 
the work of thirty men and not of ten. 

The mass began to liquify and Benvenuto cast 
in a great lump of pewter weighing nearly sixty 
pounds, and they stirred it thoroughly with great 
poles of iron; ah, yes, things always go well when 
the master is around. Master and men alike 
looked with joy into the seething cauldron and 
195 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


Benvenuto forgot all about his fever, when sud¬ 
denly there came a great flash of flame, followed 
by a loud report. “ We’ve been struck by light¬ 
ning!” wailed the youngest apprentice and they 
were all frightened, Benvenuto the most of all. 
It was not a thunderbolt however, but the cover 
of the furnace which had caused the noise. This 
had burst asunder and now the bronze was 
overflowing. “ Quick,” commanded Benvenuto, 
“ open the mouth of the mould and set free the 
bronze.” But the metal ran sluggishly and this 
was not as it should be. “ The fierce heat has 
consumed the alloy,” cried Benvenuto; “ run with 
all haste and bid them give you all my pewter plates 
and bowls and platters.” They were brought, 
about two hundred in all, and Benvenuto cast then 
one by one into the furnace, whereupon the bronze 
ran freely and the mould was filled. 

And being pious workmen they thanked God, 
after which they ate and drank together and the 
night being as yet not quite spent, Benvenuto went 
to bed and to sleep. When he awoke he was very 
hungry and he found that it was dinner time. 
“ Ah, and this is the man who was going to die! ” 
cried his housekeeper, when she saw his smiling 
face. “Well, dinner is ready, but we have no 
dishes.” 

“ Send out for earthen pots and plates,” cried 
Benvenuto; “your dinner will be none the less 
good for being served up in such humble style,” 
and, indeed, the household never made a merrier 
meal. 

Benvenuto was happy, the storm was over and 
the sun shone in at the workshop door and all the 
196 




BENVENUTO AND HIS PERSEUS 


workmen came and looked at the mould. How 
had the casting resulted? There could be no 
answer, as they very well knew, for two whole 
days, yet still they wondered. Benvenuto won¬ 
dered too and when at last he began most care¬ 
fully and little by little to uncover his work, he 
hoped and feared and rejoiced all in one, for he 
found that the head of Medusa had come, the 
head of Perseus too, and as he went on down, 
every part of the figure was as it should be. “ I 
hope the foot will not come,” thought Benvenuto, 
who wanted to say to the Duke, “ I told you so,” 
but the leg was perfect and so was the heel; 
“Well, well! ” But oh, joy, there were no toes 
after all, and part of the foot was missing. Now, 
what would Duke Cosimo say? Benvenuto would 
have to supply the missing parts, but what was the 
work beside the pleasure of his triumph? 

The Duke said, “ Who would have thought it? ” 
and he felt proud of his clever artist and his beau¬ 
tiful work which was to be put in place as soon as 
Benvenuto had fashioned all the ornaments, 
figures and garlands, which he placed on the ped¬ 
estal. When it was finally set up, all Florence, 
as usual, came out to wonder and admire, and be¬ 
fore long it became one of the sights of the city. 

And Benvenuto, every time that he crossed the 
palace square to bring some of his gold and silver 
work to the Duchess, would glance proudly at his 
bronze “ Perseus ” standing beside Donatello’s 
“ Judith,” and then just once again smile disdain¬ 
fully at Bandinelli’s “ Neptune ” beyond the palace 
wall. 


197 




THE STORY OF TRAJAN’S COLUMN 

In the old days when the Danube River was 
called the Ister, there lay on its banks a kingdom 
called Dacia. The Dacians were great warriors 
and every once in a while King Decebalus and his 
men would come down from their mountain strong¬ 
holds and invade the territory of their neighbors 
across the river. 

When this became known in Rome there was a 
pretty to do, for the Dacians were attacking 
Roman allies, a thing never to be allowed, and the 
Emperor at once posted soldiers all along the 
Danube to guard the borders. 

“ Ah! ” said Decebalus, when he saw the forts 
go up, “ this means trouble for Dacia, I fear. We 
shall have to discourage these Romans, or they 
will end by coming over here.” 

Then he and his chieftains tried to dislodge the 
Romans, whereupon more soldiers were sent from 
Rome and there was more fighting than ever be¬ 
fore. At last one day there was a great battle in 
which both sides claimed the victory. 

“We won!” said the Roman general to 
Decebalus, “ and you must acknowledge yourself 
a vassal of Rome.” 

“ No, we won,” declared Decebalus, “ but if 
Rome will pay me a yearly tribute and allow me 
besides some soldiers to teach my men building 
198 


STORY OF TRAJAN’S COLUMN 


and military art, I shall agree to being called your 
vassal.” 

The Roman commander objected, but seeing no 
way out of it he called a truce and sent to Rome 
to ask what he should do. 

The Emperor returned answer that if it had to 
be Rome would pay the tribute and furnish the 
military instructors, but since it was a victory and 
Decebalus had become a vassal, Rome should cele¬ 
brate accordingly. So the usual festivities were 
set in motion and the story of the glorious victory 
carved on an arch for all to see. But nothing was 
said on it about the tribute. 

Years came and went and emperors changed 
in Rome, but the tribute kept on being paid. Then 
Trajan became emperor. He had been a brave 
soldier and a good general and now he meant to 
be a just ruler, so he tried to look into things. 
When he came to the matter of the tribute money, 
he shook his head and said: 

“Tribute for a victory: how can that be?” 
And every time he passed under the sculptured 
arch he would remark, “ When I have more time 
I must go to Dacia and look into this victory.” 

At last he found time and set out for Dacia. 
The way was long and led over land and sea, over 
mountain and stream. Sometimes there came a 
stretch of good Roman road, built long years ago, 
but it always broke off again and the Emperor and 
his train would have to plod through the mire. 
Sometimes there was no road at all, only the great 
dense forest which stretched before them for miles. 
The broad Danube, too, had to be ferried, for 
although a bridge to span it had been planned and 
199 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


even begun, it, like the roads, had never been 
finished. At last, however, Dacia was reached. 
When Trajan beheld the splendid Dacian cavalry 
and the hill towns with their strong walls and forts, 
he became thoughtful. 

“ Decebalus has been only too apt a pupil,” he 
said to himself. “ It will be no easy task to make 
him change his mind about the tribute money. 
Yet it must be done and the sooner the better. I 
must go back to Rome at once.” 

But before the Emperor rode back to Rome he 
addressed the soldiers stationed in the forts along 
the river. These soldiers were not real Romans 
like the legionaries, but were recruited from the 
subjected provinces. Guarding the borders of the 
empire and making military roads were among 
their duties. 

The Emperor told them nothing of his plans but 
scolded about the roads. 

“ Let them be set in order at once,” commanded 
he; “ fine auxiliaries you must be, indeed, if you 
think that because all roads lead to Rome any 
sort of road will do. Remember that Rome wants 
her roads so well built that future ages may still 
mark the paths her armies trod.” 

“ Aha! ” thought the soldiers at the end of this 
speech, u something more exciting than road build¬ 
ing is going to happen in this region before long.” 
Then the Emperor rode away and the auxiliaries 
fell to work; the great oaks came crashing down, 
morasses were drained and filled, hillocks vanished 
away and stout bridges went up over streams and 
rivers; yes, the road beside the Danube would be 
ready when the Emperor should need it. 

200 




STORY OF TRAJAN’S COLUMN 


Meanwhile Decebalus was watching all this 
road making with suspicion. His spies, too, 
brought him much disquieting news; boats filled 
with stores, yes, and with soldiers too, came daily 
down stream and the wood piles and hay stacks 
in the fort enclosures were unusually large. Here 
was danger threatening Dacia, that was clear; he 
must prepare to meet it. So he exercised his 
troops, garnered grain and other stores, repaired 
breaches and fortified weak walls until he felt ready 
and able to cope with the entire Roman army. 

And then, one spring day, when the ice was all 
gone from the river, the Roman army came march¬ 
ing along the new road. Each soldier carried his 
sword and shield and kit and the standard bearers 
proudly bore the eagle banners. At a certain 
point Trajan called a halt. 

“ Half of the army crosses here with me,” said 
he. u The other half must continue down stream 
to the old ferry and there enter Dacia. From the 
ferry a road will lead you straight up through the 
mountains to the Iron Gates pass. We shall meet 
there and together attack the Dacian capital.” 

This was a fine plan, but Decebalus, who guessed 
some of it, was not much alarmed, for the Iron 
Gates pass was a narrow defile which formed the 
approach to Sarmizegetusa, his capital, and he felt 
sure that he could hold it against the enemy. 

The Romans, meanwhile, built them two bridges 
of boats; one at the old ferry, where all that part 
of the army went over. Apollodorus, the builder, 
however did not cross with the rest. Trajan had 
commanded him to build a good strong bridge 
over the stream and he lost no time but set to work 
201 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


at once. The other bridge of boats was further 
up stream and over it Trajan led his part of the 
army. While they were resting in camp, Trajan 
called a council of war and the campaign began in 
earnest. First of all the auxiliaries were sent on 
ahead, to act as scouts. Hardly had the hoof- 
beats of their horses died away before prepara¬ 
tions were begun for the lustratio, or camp sacri¬ 
fice, in which the trumpeters and sacrificial beasts 
marched three times around the camp. This was 
the custom at the beginning of every campaign. 
When this was over, the Emperor addressed the 
troops and told them that he expected every man 
to do his duty. After this the army was ready 
to proceed on its long march around the outskirts 
of Dacia. Every once in a while a halt was made 
for a fort to be built and while the legionaries 
were working at this the auxiliaries stood guard 
and looked out for the enemy. Once they built a 
wall clear across a valley so that the Dacians 
should not be able to cross. Traces of this wall 
and of the hill forts are to be seen in that country 
to this very day. As soon as a fort was built, men 
were left to guard it and the army pushed on to 
the next halting place. The people round about 
were neutral; that is, if they did not approve of 
the Romans, they did not at least attack them; 
Once, indeed, they sent a messenger to tell Trajan 
not to come up that way, but the Emperor refused 
to be turned back. 

At last, however, the fort building came to an 
end, for the Romans found themselves quite close 
to the Iron Gates. Here they set up a fortified 
202 




STORY OF TRAJAN’S COLUMN 


camp and prepared to await the coming of the 
second army. 

But now Decebalus took a hand. “ Oho! ” he 
said, “ the Romans expect to come through the 
pass; be up, my brave men, and teach them their 
mistake.” 

So the Dacians gathered in the deep dark forest, 
silently, stealthily, and drew nearer and nearer to 
the hostile camp. 

The scouts scented danger and Trajan prepared 
for battle. And there was a battle, a fierce, mad 
struggle, the battle of Tapae, the first of the war. 
The Dacians began it; they broke from the forest 
and attacked the Romans on the plain before the 
Iron Gates. Both sides fought with might and 
many were the deeds of prowess done that day. 
On the Roman side the auxiliaries, as usual, were 
sent to meet the first onslaught; when they wavered 
or fell, the legionaries rushed into the breach. All 
that day the battle raged and the Romans said 
that Jupiter Tonans fought with them, for a 
thunder storm blew up and the wind sent the rain 
into the faces of the Dacians. However, the 
Romans could not boast of a victory, for at the 
end of the fray the Dacians still held the pass and 
they carried off their wounded into the safety of 
the sheltering wood. The Romans, too, lost 
heavily and although they were not driven from 
their position, Trajan saw that it would be impos¬ 
sible to reach Sarmizegetusa through the narrow 
pass. So he waited until the rest of the army came 
up the road to meet him. Then, leaving the 
greater part of the troops in the strong camp near 
203 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


the pass, and sending detachments to guard all the 
new forts, he slowly retraced his way to the river 
and went into winter quarters at some distance 
from Dacia. Thus ended the first battle of the 
war, much to the satisfaction of Decebalus and 
somewhat to the chagrin of the Roman emperor. 
But Trajan had not given up; no indeed. He 
sent to Rome for more troops and supplies and 
ordered all things to be in readiness by spring, for 
while the rivers were full of ice he could not do 
anything. 

While he was away the Dacians and some of 
their allies came down again from the mountains 
and once more invaded the territory across the 
river. Trajan heard of this the first thing when 
he came back in the spring. He had planned a 
new campaign during the winter and now he 
brought with him to the old ferry fresh transports 
and supplies and many more soldiers. But this 
matter of the invasion had to be settled before all 
else. So while the transports and troops were 
still unloading, the Emperor dispatched some of 
his fleetest cavalry to the seat of the trouble, and, 
taking horse himself, followed after as soon as 
he was able. It was a wild ride, that of Trajan 
and his escort, but when they came up with the 
first division they found the enemy already beaten 
and in full flight. The fleeing Dacians made for 
the mountains, where they would be safe from the 
Romans, but as they carried great quantities of 
booty with them, their progress was slow. Just 
as night overtook them they reached the hill 
country and the edge of safety and, wearied by a 
hard day’s march, the whole camp fell asleep. 

204 




STORY OF TRAJAN’S COLUMN 


Then the Romans, who had been in pursuit, came 
upon the camp lying all hushed and silent beneath 
the round white moon, and ere the Dacians could 
spring to arms, put them utterly to rout and re¬ 
captured all the spoils. 

After this the Emperor felt that he could go 
back to the old ferry and continue the war. The 
new bridge was not yet ready, so the bridge of 
boats was again thrown across the river and the 
army began its march on Sarmizegetusa. It was 
a long road this time, through the mountains to 
the east of Dacia. There were no Iron Gates to 
protect the capital on this side, so Decebalus had 
thrown a chain of forts across the upper valleys. 
Trajan knew this and also that there would be 
hard fighting this time, but as he could not hope to 
reach Sarmizegetusa any other way he decided that 
this was the way that should lead him to success. 

At first the Romans encountered no other ob¬ 
stacles than the roads, but these were bad enough. 
No one ever thought of traveling over the steep 
and stony mountains and through the dense forests 
and swampy valleys where the aurochs and bear 
and other wild beasts dwelt. So, while the scouts 
kept a sharp lookout, the legionaries built forts to 
protect the army in the rear and then they made 
a splendid road; for the welfare of the army de¬ 
pended on the roads, since all food had to be 
carried by mule and wagon over those steep and 
sterile heights. And all the while the army 
-pushed forward, the wonderful, conquering Roman 
army, gathered from all parts of the world; and 
it was strange to see swarthy Moors from Africa 
and from Spain, fair-haired barbarians from the 
205 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


German forests, Roman citizen troops, and even 
Dacians, from tribes unfriendly to Decebalus, 
marching in company with the legionaries through 
gloomy forests and over bleak passes. 

But now Decebalus began to grow alarmed. 
He had counted on the wilderness for protection 
but when he saw the forests crashing down before 
the Romans and the road growing beneath their 
feet he feared for Sarmizegetusa. He called to¬ 
gether his chieftains therefore in consultation: 

“ If the Romans succeed in reaching the capital 
we are lost,” he said. “ We cannot escape by the 
Iron Gates for the enemy lies before the entrance; 
we cannot reach the ferry for the long pass is also 
blocked; our only hope lies in the eastern forts.” 

“ But they are strong and well manned,” cried 
the chieftains; “ surely the force of the army will 
break against them.” 

“ Let us trust it may,” said the King. “ But, 
should the Romans carry them, we must do as at 
Tapae and attack them in their camp.” 

So it happened that when the Romans reached 
the first forts they met with stout resistance. But 
Trajan commanded that they must fall and the 
troops surged through all the valleys and forced 
them one by one. Even the chain of strong forts 
that the Roman engineers had constructed for 
Decebalus, could not hold out. What the Dacian 
king had feared was about to happen; the Romans 
were going to take the city. Then the Dacians 
hastened from hill and town and waited until the 
enemy had encamped in the great plain at the foot 
of the mountains. The Romans, however, knew 
Dacian ways and were ready for the attack. In 
206 




ROMAN SOLDIERS BUILDING ROADS 

Trajan’s Column — Rome 











STORY OF TRAJAN’S COLUMN 


the battle which followed, it would be hard to say 
who fought most bravely, the desperate Dacians, 
or the determined Romans. But fortune this time 
favored the Romans, the Dacian ranks broke and 
ere long the followers of Decebalus were in full 
flight. All was lost then, for although Sarmize- 
getusa, as was the duty of a royal city, offered 
resistance, yet it was a forlorn hope from the first, 
and Decebalus had to acknowledge himself not 
only beaten but also willing to come to terms. So 
he accepted the vassalage and promised to pull 
down his forts and also to return the engineers 
and builders as well as certain deserters, who had 
gone over to him. 

Then Trajan and his hosts drew up in festal 
array before the camp and the conquered chief¬ 
tains, Decebalus at their head, came and knelt be¬ 
fore the Emperor and swore fealty. Behind them 
followed the Roman workmen and instructors, glad 
that their work in Dacia was ended and that they 
were soon to see Rome again. The deserters 
were also in the train, but they looked dogged and 
sullen for they knew that an unhappy fate awaited 
them. 

After this, peace was declared and, leaving a 
great part of the army to care for the forts, the 
Emperor went back to Rome. 

II 

Decebalus was unhappy: he was still called king, 
it is true, but the emperor of Rome had more to 
say about Dacia than had its rightful ruler. His 
good city Sarmizegetusa was in the hands of 
strangers and when he looked from his palace he 
207 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


saw his two young sons playing with the Roman 
guards. 

“ My sons will learn to like foreign ways,” he 
said bitterly, “ and my heir will never be a true 
Dacian king.” 

Then he went away from his city and carried 
his boys and his great treasure up to a stronghold 
in the mountains. Here he and his chieftains 
hunted in the forests, or sat in the great hall and 
lamented over the state of things. From lament¬ 
ing they fell to plotting and all at once it was clear 
in their minds that the Romans must be driven out. 
Then the King and his chieftains asked their 
friends to go boar hunting with them; but when 
they were met in the deep dark forest, the boar 
went all unharmed while the hunters talked of a 
far different quarry — the Romans. The King’s 
party strengthened from day to day and at last he 
felt strong enough to attack the Roman forts. 

The besieged sent word to Trajan. “ What! ” 
cried the Emperor, “ Decebalus has dared to break 
his word! On to Dacia, my legions! ” 

So once again men and stores came down the 
Danube. Trajan, taking his fleetest horsemen, 
hurried on ahead, anxious to relieve the forts, 
which were hard beset. He crossed the Danube 
at the first ferry and went up over the road which 
led to the Iron Gates. At the battlefield of Tapae 
he paused long enough to sacrifice to the memory 
of his brave men who had fallen there. Then on 
again past Sarmizegetusa and over the plain to the 
forts, coming up behind the Dacians, thus besieg¬ 
ing the besiegers, and turning the tide of war. 
The Dacians escaped into the forest where the 
208 



STORY OF TRAJAN’S COLUMN 


Romans could not follow, and winter as usual 
calling a truce to the fighting, Trajan proceeded 
down to the old ferry, there to meet his army and 
go into winter quarters. 

This time the army was able to cross on the 
fine new bridge, for Apollodorus had just finished 
it and most proud he was of his work, as was 
Trajan too, who greatly admired the twenty bold 
arches leaping the great stream. The event had 
to be fittingly celebrated, of course, and the Em¬ 
peror held a sacrifice and dedicated the bridge to 
good Father Danube, who was so friendly to the 
Romans. 

Now all that winter while the Romans lay in 
camp beside the river and the tribes from round 
about came to do homage to the power of Rome, 
Decebalus far up in the mountains was getting his 
city ready to withstand the coming siege. It was 
a strong city, lying on a plateau and fortified on 
three sides. Behind it rose a steep mountain and 
attack from that quarter was impossible. The 
city was still further protected by a second town, 
built on a lower lying plateau beneath the walls. 
The lower town was also well defended and had to 
be stormed before the upper city could be attacked. 

“ Now,” said Decebalus, looking at his strong¬ 
hold with pride, “let the Romans come! We 
shall try and lay in food enough for many months; 
then they may batter away at our walls until tired, 
for storm them they never can.” 

Thereupon he ordered in all the supplies that 
could be procured; and transports of grain and 
provisions of every kind came daily through the 
gates and were placed in storehouses. Great piles 
209 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


of stones, too, were gathered and heaped up at 
points along the walls from which they were later 
to be hurled down upon the assailants. Day and 
night, watchmen looked from the high towers lest 
the enemy steal up unawares. 

Then in the spring, the scouts brought news. 
The Romans had crossed the bridge and were on 
the march; a mighty army in two divisions, surg¬ 
ing up through the valleys and passes. At their 
approach the Dacians were leaving their towns and 
villages and fleeing to the mountains. 

Yes, the Romans were coming; the watchers on 
the towers saw them and gave the alarm. The 
gates were locked and the defenders manned the 
walls. Ah, but Decebalus was glad that the walls 
stood so firm, for the attacking party made a bold 
assault. Nothing would stop those Romans, 
neither stones nor arrows nor burning oil. When 
they fell others stood ready to take their places, 
and they swarmed up the scaling ladders as though 
nothing had happened. Days passed into weeks 
and weeks into months and still the siege went on. 
The lower city yielded after a time and the soldiers 
pulled down the walls, but the upper town was im¬ 
pregnable. 

“ Throw up works all around the walls,” com¬ 
manded Trajan; “ we must try and starve the place 
into submission.” 

It was done as he ordered and a hard task it 
was, but once finished, the Romans had only to 
wait for the inevitable. They could hunt game 
in the woods and their supply trains came up 
regularly over the great broad road, but save for 
a narrow trail over the mountains, the Dacians 
210 



STORY OF TRAJAN’S COLUMN 


were shut off from the world. They held out 
bravely and made frequent sorties, hoping to break 
the Roman lines, but these attempts were always 
fraught with disaster to themselves. And time 
passed by on leaden feet and gaunt famine began 
to stalk the streets. Decebalus felt pity for his 
suffering people, so he called together his chief¬ 
tains and said: 

“ We cannot hold out much longer, and if 
Trajan will let us march out with all the honors 
of war, I shall surrender the town.” 

Then he hoisted a flag of truce and under its 
cover an ambassador approached the Emperor and 
brought him the King’s message. 

Trajan, however, said: “No; unconditional 
surrender and nothing else,” and the ambassador 
turned and went back to the doomed city. 

The Dacians held another council. “ Our King 
must leave the city and hide in the mountains until 
better times,” declared all the chieftains together. 

“ The populace will throw itself upon the mercy 
of the Emperor. He knows that the people must 
obey their rulers. We, the chieftains, cannot all 
go with our king, but those of us who must remain 
will not fall into the hands of the enemy alive.” 

“ Nor shall we, if we are overtaken and de¬ 
feated,” cried Decebalus and his escort. 

Thus the fate of the royal city was sealed. But 
Decebalus could not take his treasure with him on 
his flight, nor would he leave it behind to fall into 
the hands of the enemy. He must bury it; and 
only a couple of trusted followers might know 
where. So in the night a number of captives were 
made to carry the treasure to the caves in the cliffs 
211 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


behind the town. Many a weary trip they made, 
half faint from hunger, before they had brought 
it all out of the city. To get at the caves a river 
had to be turned from its bed and the captives 
were set to do it. They went at their task in 
bitterness of spirit, for they knew the cruel fate 
of those who shared a secret. Yet though it was 
to be their last work on earth, they were too proud 
to shirk their duty and before dawn the treasure 
was all safely disposed, the river again in its bed 
and the captives and slaves silent in death, for 
“ dead men tell no tales.” 

Next day the King with his sons and a few 
friends and followers fled to the mountains and 
the city gates opened to the conquerors. The 
populace streamed out and knelt to the Emperor, 
but the proud chieftains set fire to the town and 
while it was burning, took poison lest they be led 
to Rome as captives. The city was destroyed and 
its inhabitants scattered; a few ruins still mark the 
site, but its name has been forgotten. 

Dacia was now a Roman province; this time the 
inscription could truthfully appear on the arches. 
Trajan sent word to Rome to announce the coming 
celebration. The soldiers rejoiced at the thought 
of a holiday and forgot their hardships and wounds 
while they hunted bear and wolves in the Dacian 
forests for the sports in the Colosseum. 

Still, as long as Decebalus was at large, the 
victory was not as complete as Trajan could wish 
it. If left alone, the King would not rest until 
he had gathered a new band of followers and there 
would be fresh trouble. And then, too, with the 
King heading the long line of Dacian captives the 
212 



STORY OF TRAJAN’S COLUMN 


triumphal procession would be all the more im¬ 
pressive. 

But he was gone, no one seemed to know 
whither; Trajan had the scouts scouring the moun¬ 
tain passes, but to no avail. At last some Dacians, 
who wished to gain favor with the Romans, re¬ 
ported that Decebalus with his escort had passed 
through their neighborhood and the soldiers were 
immediately set on the track of the fugitives. 
Another Dacian, one of the fallen monarch’s 
trusted attendants — a false friend, he — betrayed 
the secret hiding place of the treasure and the 
Romans loaded it on mules and carried it all away. 

Meanwhile up in the bleak mountains, Decebalus 
and his small band of faithful followers were try¬ 
ing to keep out of reach of the pursuing Roman 
cavalry which they knew must sooner or later come 
up with them. 

At last the King begged his chieftains to go 
back and make their peace with Rome. “ It can¬ 
not be granted me,” he said. “ I shall hide and 
if discovered, sell my life dearly, but you may still 
see happy days.” Some of the chieftains did as 
he told them, weeping as they bid him farewell. 
Others, however, would not leave him and swore 
to die with him. 

Then weary and exhausted, the small band 
awaited the coming of the Romans. They fought 
bravely, falling one by one in defence of their king 
and his house. Decebalus, too, struck many a 
hard blow; but when all hope was gone and num¬ 
bers threatened to overwhelm him, he sank to his 
knees and with his own sword put an end to his 
life. Dacia’s ruler had lost crown, friends and 
213 




OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


fortune, but he died a king and Rome was not to 
see him a captive in chains, making holiday sport 
for her populace. 

The soldiers came back from the mountains 
with no other prisoners save the two young sons 
of the dead king, who with their faithful tutor had 
been taken on the battlefield. 

When Trajan heard how his adversary had died 
he exclaimed: “ All honor to a brave man! No 

Roman could have made a better end.” After the 
cruel custom of the day, the severed head of the 
fallen monarch was placed in the hollow of a shield 
and shown to the army to prove that he was really 
dead, after which, there being no further fighting 
for them to do, the legions turned about and 
marched along the fine broad road on their way to 
imperial Rome. 

“ Now,” said the Roman senate, when the fes¬ 
tivities were over, “ we must do something to 
perpetuate the memory of this splendid victory.” 

Apollodorus had come home with the rest and 
was now planning a magnificent new forum for 
the Emperor. So he was called and asked what 
he thought of telling the story on an arch. 

“ An arch could easily be put up,” said the 
great builder, “ but it’s too long a story for an 
arch; a column would be better. There is a hill 
in the center of the forum now, let us level it and 
raise a column in its place as high as the hill now 
stands; on this column let there be a band of 
marble, winding about it like a ribbon and carved 
with the history of the war from beginning to end. 

214 




STORY OF TRAJAN’S COLUMN 


On the top of the column we will place a statue of 
the Emperor.” 

“ And in its base shall be his tomb,” interrupted 
Trajan, who was well pleased with the idea. The 
Senate also agreed and some of the Dacian treas¬ 
ure was ordered to be spent for the purpose. 

Apollodorus planned the column and its wind¬ 
ings, but a sculptor set to work upon the story 
itself. He made sketches of captives and armor, 
of soldiers and commanders. He studied the cam¬ 
paign thoroughly and his knowledge of rivers and 
mountains, forts and marches was so perfect that 
people can read the story from his picture as 
though he had been a true historian and had writ¬ 
ten it in a book. If he showed only the victories 
of the Romans and none of their defeats, and if 
the dead in his pictures always prove to be Dacians, 
we know that he did it because in a time of triumph 
the spectators did not like to be reminded of such 
things. 

Who this artist was the world has forgotten; 
in fact, there were three unknown artists who took 
up the story in turn: this is known by the manner 
in which different sections of the work have been 
executed. Each artist had helpers, who put in 
houses and trees and walls after the figures had 
been finished. These helpers, simple stone cut¬ 
ters evidently, made frequent mistakes when they 
did not understand the drawings which had been 
traced on the marble for them to work from. 

Trajan followed the work with interest, when 
the cares of state allowed him and he insisted that 
Decebalus be treated as a worthy foe and that his 
215 



OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 


pathetic end be told with dignity and feeling. He 
also had Apollodorus and his bridge depicted, a 
great honor in a composition so limited for space. 

Trajan is long since gone, his forum lies in 
ruins, and the Roman empire in turn fell before 
the barbarians it once conquered, but the glorious 
column still stands in its place and tells its story 
as vividly as in the days when it was first put up. 







PEACE 

Trajan’s Column — Rome 










NOTES 


THE OLD ROAD 

Braddock, (Major-general) Edward. A British 
commander, born in Perthshire, Scotland in 1695; died 
in America, July 13, 1755, at a place called Great 
Meadows, about 60 miles from Fort Duquesne, the present 
Pittsburg. In 1754 he was sent to America with a view 
to driving the French from the territory which they were 
holding west of the Alleghany Mountains. The Colonial 
governors were called upon to furnish the expedition 
with transportation and provisions and on June 18, 1755, 
Braddock, with a force of 1,200 men, regulars and pro¬ 
vincials, marched from Little Meadows against Fort 
Duquesne. He crossed the Monongahela, July 8, and 
on the following day, when about ten miles from the 
fort, fell into an ambuscade of French and Indians, who 
put his army to rout. He was mortally wounded while 
trying to re-form his men. Washington, then a young 
man of twenty-three, took part in the expedition as one 
of Braddock’s aides and was with the general when the 
latter died. 


ROSA BONHEUR 

Bonheur, Rosalie (Rosa) Marie. A French ani¬ 
mal painter born at Bordeaux, France, March 22, 1828. 
Her father was her chief teacher although she also studied 
under Cogniet. She received medals of the first class in 
1848 and 1855. Her “ Haymaking in Auvergne,” ex¬ 
hibited in 1855 attracted much attention and made her 
reputation. “Plowing in Nivernais,” and “The Horse 
Fair,” are perhaps, the best known of her pictures, but 
217 


NOTES 


her lions, deer and sheep were also much admired. The 
latter part of her life was spent on her estate of By, in 
the forest of Fontainebleau where she died May 25, 1899. 

The Horse Fair. Rosa Bonheur’s most famous 
painting, now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New 
York. It represents a number of horses being led around 
an open space. It was first exhibited in the Salon of 
1853 where it attracted the attention of the picture 
dealer Gambart who bought it for 40,000 francs. It is 
163/2 by 7 ft. 9 inches in size; the largest animal painting 
ever produced. In 1857 it was sent to the United States 
and sold to W. P. Wright of Weehawken, New Jersey, 
and from his hands it passed to the Stewart collection. 
Finally Cornelius Vanderbilt purchased the picture and 
presented it to the Metropolitan Museum. Thomas 
Landseer engraved the “ Horse Fair ” from a reduced 
copy which Rosa Bonheur made for his use. This is the 
“ Horse Fair ” in the London National Gallery. Several 
other replicas are in English collections. 

JOHN FLAXMAN’S STORY OF TROY 

Flaxman, John. A noted English sculptor, born 
July 6, 1755, at York, died December 7, 1826 at London. 
He was a sickly child spending much time in his father’s 
shop where he drew after plaster casts, the elder Flaxman 
being a dealer in plaster busts and reliefs. A Mr. 
Mathew became interested in John whom he found read¬ 
ing a Latin book in the shop and invited him to his home, 
where Mrs. Mathew paid some attention to the boy’s 
studies. At the age of fifteen he entered the Royal Acad¬ 
emy and in 1770 his first work, a Neptune modeled in 
wax, was exhibited. After leaving the Academy he spent 
twelve years working in the Wedgwood pottery. In 
1787 he went to Rome where he remained seven years and 
where he executed his drawings for Homer, iTschylos and 
Hesiod. Many of his statues and busts also date from 
this period. His reliefs are his best work; among them 
218 




NOTES 


may be mentioned his “ Shield of Achilles ” and a frieze, 
“ Peace, Liberty and Plenty.” His best piece of sculpture 
is the group of the “ Archangel Michael and Satan,” 
which was executed for the Earl of Egrement. 

SIR EDWIN AND SIR WALTER 

Scott, Sir Walter. Born at Edinburgh, August 16, 
1771; died at Abbotsford September 1832. A celebrated 
poet and even more famous novelist. “ The Talisman ” 
to which reference is made in the story, was one of 
Scott’s later works. It was begun in 1824, the year of 
Landseer’s visit, and was published in 1825. 

Abbotsford. Sir Walter Scott’s estate on the Tweed, 
near Melrose, the castle of the story. The land had 
originally belonged to the monks of Melrose, but in 1811, 
when Scott purchased the place it was a farm. Scott 
at first built himself a modest villa but wishing to enter¬ 
tain many friends he found it too small and in 1817 he 
began to remodel and enlarge the place until in the end 
Abbotsford became a stately mansion. 

Haggis. A Scottish dish, immortalized by Robert 
Burns. It consists of a mixture of sheep’s pluck, oatmeal 
and onions, boiled in a sheep’s stomach. 

Gillie. A man servant, generally a hunting attend¬ 
ant. 

Thomas the Rhymer, or Thomas of Erceldonne, 
flourished 1225-1300. Noted in folk lore and Arthurian 
legend as a prophet and guide to the mysterious halls 
beneath the Eildon hills. The Queen of Faery found 
him under the Eildon tree and took him to her realm. 
The Rhymer’s Glen where the meeting is supposed to 
have taken place, formed part of Scott’s estate. 

Landseer, Sir Edwin Henry. An English animal 
painter, born at London, March 7 > 1802; died there 
October 1, 1873. Youngest son and pupil of John Land¬ 
seer. He drew animals at the age of five, and at the 

219 




NOTES 


age of fourteen went to the Royal Academy. He also 
studied under Haydon and early gained a popularity that 
was denied his teacher. Landseer painted some portraits 
but his best work was done with dogs and deer. Among 
his most noted paintings are “ Sir Walter Scott and his 
Dogs” (1833), “Jack in Office” (1833), “Suspense” 
(1834), “Dignity and Impudence” (1839) “Stag at 
Bay” (1846), “Monarch of the Glen” (1851). 
“ Dignity and Impudence ” and “ The Bay Mare ” are 
perhaps the most popular of his works. 

THE BUILDING OF ST. OUEN 

St. Ouen, Church of. One of the most beautiful 
Gothic edifices in the world. It was erected in Rouen, 
France, in the fourteenth century. It is possibly the 
fifth or sixth church that has occupied the site, but of the 
earlier churches nothing remains save the fragment known 
as the “ Tour aux Clercs.” The first stone of the church 
we now see, was laid on May 25, 1318, by Abbot Jean 
Roussel, otherwise called Marc d’Argent. The choir and 
transepts were erected in twenty-one years (1318-1339), 
and though the nave was not finished until the early part 
of the sixteenth century, it seems to have been erected in 
accordance with the original design. The central tower 
is considerably later than the transept from which it rises 
and dates from the latter half of the fifteenth century. 
In 1418, a century after the laying of the corner stone 
of St. Ouen, Henry V of England invaded Normandy 
and laid siege to Rouen. The city offered a stout resis¬ 
tance but was reduced by famine and compelled to sur¬ 
render in January of the following year. During this 
time Jean de Bayeaux, son of a former master builder of 
St. Ouen, was in charge of the work. His masons and 
the monks continued with the building during the earlier 
months of the siege and after the city had surrendered 
once more took up their labors under the protection of the 
English king. 


220 




NOTES 


THE STORY OF BERTEL 

Thorwaldsen, Albert (Bertel). Born at Copen¬ 
hagen, November 15, 1770; died there March 24, 1844. 
Son of a poor wood carver who intended him for the 
same profession. He early showed a taste for sculpture 
and at the age of eleven years became a pupil of the 
Royal Academy of Fine Arts. After some years he 
gained the grand prize which enabled him to go to Rome. 
He made many models but regularly destroyed them 
until he modeled his “ Jason/’ which made his reputa¬ 
tion but did not sell. Mr. Thomas Hope, however in 
1804 ordered the “ Jason ” to be executed in marble and 
from that time on Thorwaldsen had more orders than he 
could fill. He spent the greater part of his life in Rome 
and the list of his works would fill a volume. Chief 
among them are “ Alexander’s entry into Babylon ”; 
“ Night and Morning the statue of “ Jason ” “ Gany¬ 
mede,” “ Psyche,” “ The Graces,” and other classical 
subjects. His “ Christ and the Twelve Apostles ” which 
group is at Copenhagen is probably his best work. 

MARQUETTE AND THE GREAT RIVER 

Marquette, Jacques. Born at Laon, France, 1637; 
died near Lake Michigan, May 18, 1675. A French 
Jesuit missionary and explorer in America. Together 
with Jolliet he in 1673 explored the Mississippi from 
where the Wisconsin joins it, to the mouth of the 
Arkansas. He wrote a description of the expedition of 
1673, which was published under the title of “Voyage 
et decouverte de quelques pays et nations de l’Amerique 
Septentrionale.” In 1674, accompanied by two French¬ 
men and a number of Indians, Marquette undertook a 
second exploring expedition to the Kaskaskia country 
where he hoped to establish a mission, after which he 
explored the Fox river and the shores of Lake Michigan. 
Winter however overtook him here and he was obliged 
221 




NOTES 


to pass the cold season in a cabin on the shore of the 
Chicago River. He was ill all winter but by spring had 
recovered sufficiently to visit his flock at Kaskaskia. His 
old malady however returned and on his way home to 
Mackinac he died. His faithful Indians carried the body 
to the mission at St. Ignace, where a monument has been 
erected over it. 

MILLET AND HIS POOR FOLK 

Millet, Jean Franqois. A celebrated French 
painter, born October 24, 1814, at Gruchy; died at Barbi- 
zon, January 26, 1875. The son of a peasant, he spent 
his early years on a farm but his talent becoming evident 
he went to Cherbourg, later to Paris, where he studied 
under Delaroche. He exhibited at the Salon of 1840 and 
after a number of years of poverty and struggle he went 
to Barbizon and devoted himself to depicting peasant 
life. Recognition came to him but not wealth although 
his “ Angelus” at a sale received the highest price ever 
given for a single picture. Millet’s influence on modern 
art has been great. His best known pictures are “ The 
Angelus”; “The Man with the Hoe”; “The Glean¬ 
ers ”; “ The Shepherdess,” and “ The Church at Gre- 
ville.” 

Jacque, Charles Emile. A French painter and 
etcher. Born at Paris, 1813; died in 1874. He is called 
the “ Pig Raphael ” because he painted pigs so well. He 
also made many paintings and etchings of sheep. Jacque, 
like Millet, belonged to the “ Barbizon School.” 

ABE 

Lincoln, Abraham. Born February 12, 1809, in 
Hardin county, Kentucky; died April 15, 1865, at Wash¬ 
ington, D. C. At the age of eight he removed with his 
parents to a farm in Indiana where he passed his child¬ 
hood and early youth in poverty and toil. In 1818 
Lincoln’s mother died and the next year his father mar¬ 
ried again. The stepmother was a kind woman who 
222 




NOTES 


brought some homely comforts into the humble cabin and 
it was owing to her that Abraham was sent to school. 
His schooling which extended over a period of several 
years was so often interrupted that his actual attendance 
amounted to about six months. In 1830 the Lincoln 
family moved to Illinois; in 1831 Abe left home to work 
for himself, beginning as store clerk in New Salem and 
mounting step by step until the Nation’s highest honors 
were his. 

ST. MARK’S SHRINE 

The first church of St. Mark at Venice, erected about 
829 A. D. stood for nearly one hundred and fifty years. 
In 976, during a riot it was destroyed by fire and the 
body of the patron saint spirited away. A new church 
was immediately begun and at its dedication, in 1094, 
the body of St. Mark was recovered by miracle. The 
second church, however, before long proved too small 
and from the twelfth century to the early years of the 
fifteenth, builders and decorators were constantly at work 
enlarging the structure and adorning it both within and 
without with all the splendor and wealth which the 
argosies of Venice could lay at the feet of the city’s patron 
saint. 

The great Campanile, or bell tower, was erected in the 
twelfth century. It stood until 1902 when it suddenly 
collapsed. It has since been rebuilt. 

FAIRYTALE AND THE BROTHERS 
GRIMM 

The Brothers Grimm were men of great learning, 
founders of Germanic science and explorers of German 
antiquity. They led beautiful, simple lives and they 
bestowed upon the children of the world a priceless gift 
when they in 1812, published their collection of fairy 
tales. They were both born at Hanau, Germany; Jacob 
in 1785 and Wilhelm in 1786. Both were librarians 
223 




NOTES 


at Cassel and Jacob spent some time in Paris. Wilhelm 
collected the greater part of the fairy tales and an old 
peasant woman who lived in a nearby village was the 
Homer of many of them. Wilhelm died in 1859 and his 
brother Jacob followed him in 1863. 

Jerome Bonaparte. Youngest brother of Napoleon 
I. Emperor of France, was in 1807 appointed King of 
Westphalia. His reign was of short duration and when 
the First Empire fell the “ Merry again tomorrow king ” 
lost his throne. 

TWO FLORENTINE FRIENDS 

Brunelleschi, Filippo. Born at Florence in 1377; 
died there in 1446. A great architect. He began his 
career as a goldsmith but the limitations of the material 
were irksome to him and he hailed with joy the chance 
of entering the competition for making the bronze doors 
of the Baptistery. He came near winning in the con¬ 
test but Lorenzo Ghiberti’s design surpassed his, and 
to Ghiberti was awarded the task of the doors. Brunel¬ 
leschi in his disappointment turned his attention to the 
apparently impossible feat of raising a dome over the 
Florence Cathedral. For this purpose he went for 
several years to Rome, where he studied the remains of 
ancient architecture. When he returned to Florence 
he had solved the problem and after many difficulties he 
was at last permitted to proceed with the w 7 ork. He 
completed it and produced one of the greatest feats in 
architecture. He built many churches and public and 
private buildings and his Palazzo Pitti at Florence has 
served as a model to the present day. 

Donatello, real name Donato di Betti Bardo. Born 
1386, died 1468. A Florentine, and one of the world’s 
great sculptors. He, like Brunelleschi began by being a 
goldsmith but soon forsook this art for marble and 
bronze. He spent some time in Rome studying the an¬ 
tique, but founded his own style. He had the modern 
contempt for mere beauty and loved force and action. 
224 




NOTES 


Among his most famous works are the marble reliefs of 
the “ Dancing Children,” executed for the organ gallery 
in the Cathedral of Florence; the bronze Judith in the 
Loggia dei Lanzi; the equestrian statue of Gattamelata 
at Padua; his “ St. George ”; his “ David ” and a num¬ 
ber of figures on the Campanile. 

THE JOYOUS VENTURE OF THE 
RAJAH 

Captain Jonathan Carnes, of Salem, Massachu¬ 
setts, having heard that pepper grew wild on the north¬ 
ern coast of Sumatra, interested Jonathan Peele of 
Salem, in the venture. A ship was fitted out and in 
November 1795, Captain Carnes cleared out of Salem 
harbor for the East Indies. Eighteen months later, the 
Rajah sailed into port loaded to the hatch coamings 
with pepper. The profits of the voyage amounted to 
700%. 

On her second voyage the Rajah was chased but that 
time too she managed to keep her secret. On a third 
voyage, however, her secret lading place was discovered 
and thereafter her owners had to be content with the 
usual cent per cent. 

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 

Della Scala, Cangrande I, Lord of Verona and 
greatest of the Scaliger family. He was born in 1291 
and originally christened Can Francesco, but on account 
of his bold, brave spirit he was nicknamed Cangrande, or 
Big Dog, and he and his successors bore a dog as their 
crest on their helmets. Cangrande was noted for his 
winning smile and his knightly qualities. He succeeded 
his brother Alboino in 1311 and was a successful ruler 
until his untimely death in 1329. Dante refers to him 
and to Verona repeatedly in his “ Divine Comedy,” and 
is said to have spent part of his exile at Cangrande’s court 
in 1317-18. 


225 





NOTES 


The splendid equestrian statue of Cangrande over his 
tomb in Verona, is by an unknown artist. 

Dante (Durante) Alighieri. Born at Florence, 
1255; died at Ravenna 1321. One of the world’s four 
greatest poets. (Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Goethe.) 
On account of political reasons he was, in 1302, banished 
from Florence and obliged to spend the remainder of 
his life in exile. His chief work is the “ Divine Com¬ 
edy,” which was finished shortly before his death. 

Giotto di Bordone. Born at Vespignano, 1276; died 
1336. Painter, sculptor and architect. His principal 
works were his frescoes which were in most of the large 
cities of Italy. Many of them, those that he executed 
for Cangrande, at Verona, among them, have been lost; 
but the scenes from the life of St. Francis, in the lower 
church at Assisi, still remain. The Bell-tower of the 
cathedral at Florence is his most famous architectural 
work. He did not live to see it completed but he left a 
perfect model for it, which was largely but not entirely 
followed in its construction. He was the friend of Dante 
and the portrait, discovered some years ago on a wall in 
the palace of the Podesta at Florence is supposed to be 
Giotto’s portrait of the great poet. 

Sachetti, Franco di Benci. A Florentine novelist 
and poet who flourished in the fourteenth century. His 
chief work was the “ Three Hundred Tales,” of which 
only 223 have come down to us. Dolcibene has borrowed 
one of these stories in his tale of the law student who 
carved according to the rules of grammar. An excellent 
translation, called “Tales from Sachetti,” has been made 
by Mary G. Steegmann. 

MOZART 

Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus. Born January 27, 
1756, at Salzburg, Germany; died at Vienna, December 
5, 1791. His musical genius manifested itself when he 
was but three years of age. At five he composed minuets, 
226 




NOTES 


and all through his childhood he was taken on concert 
tours to play in the chief European capitals before royal 
and noble patrons. His sister Maria Anne (Nannerl), 
who was five years his elder, was also a gifted musician 
but was overshadowed by Wolfgang’s phenomenal genius. 
He was the only “ wonder-child ” that bore out the 
promise of its early youth for to the day of his death 
Mozart’s creative force was steadily on the increase. 
At the age of fourteen his father took him to Italy where 
the young musician conducted works of his own com¬ 
posing. He returned to Salzburg, later undertook an 
extended tour with his mother and finally settled in 
Vienna. Mozart’s works are many and include Sonatas, 
concertos, symphonies, operas: “The Marriage of Fi¬ 
garo,” “ Idomeneus,” “The Clemency of Titus,” “Don 
Juan,” “The Magic Flute” and others; also songs and 
church music, of which “The Requiem” is the best 
known. 


OF AN ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL 
SIR GALAHAD 

Galahad, Sir. The noblest and purest knight of the 
Round Table. Walter Map invented the character in 
the “ Quest of the Graal.” 

Grail or Graal. According to medieval legend this 
was the cup or chalice used by Christ at the Last Supper. 
In it Joseph of Arimathea caught the last drops of Christ’s 
blood as he was taken from the cross. This cup Joseph 
is said to have carried to Britain. Another account how¬ 
ever has it that it was brought by angels from heaven 
and deposited in a castle on a mysterious mountain where 
a band of knights guarded it. If approached by any one 
not perfectly pure the grail vanished away. Having been 
lost it became the quest of knights errant of all nations. 
The stories and poems of Arthur and the Knights of the 
Round Table are founded on this legend. 

m 




NOTES 


EARLY DAYS IN CINCINNATI 

Clevenger, Shobal Vail. American sculptor, born 
near Middletown, Ohio, 1812; died at sea, 1843. He 
came to Cincinnati when a boy and found work as a stone 
cutter. E. S. Thomas, editor of the Cincinnati Evening 
Post, became interested in the lad who showed artistic 
ability and made it possible for him to visit the Eckstein 
Art Academy. His first work was a bust of Mr. 
Thomas which was executed directly in the stone. He 
set up a studio in Cincinnati but later transferred it to 
New York. Among sitters were W. H. Harrison, 
Henry Clay, Martin Van Buren and Washington Alls- 
ton. His bust of Daniel Webster is considered the best 
likeness of the great statesman and was selected by the 
Post-office department to be reproduced on the fifteen 
cent U. S. postage-stamp. In 1840 Clevenger went to 
Rome where he modeled his “ North American Indian,” 
“ the first distinctive American piece of sculpture.” He 
fell ill while in Italy and embarked for home. But he 
died shortly after the ship set sail and was buried at sea. 
Some of his work may be seen in Boston, New York and 
Philadelphia art galleries and museums of historical so¬ 
cieties. 

Powers, Hiram. A famous American sculptor, born 
at Woodstock, Vermont, 1805; died at Florence, Italy, 
1873. Some of his early work was executed in Cincin¬ 
nati, but his chief occupation in that city was the model¬ 
ing and repairing of wax figures in a museum. In 1835 
he went to Washington and in 1837 t0 Florence. His 
chief works are “ The Greek Slave,” “ The Fisher Boy,” 
and many portrait and ideal busts. 

Trollope, Frances, Mrs. A noted Englishwoman 
who came to Cincinnati in 1828 hoping to make a fortune 
with a bazar which she erected for the sale of china, art 
objects and fine wares for which the frontier town was 
not yet ready. Her venture proved a failure and after 
touring the United States she returned to Europe where 
228 




NOTES 


she published her famous book on America. She finally 
settled in Florence where she died in 1863. 

BENVENUTO AND HIS PERSEUS 
Cellini, Benvenuto. A most famous Italian gold¬ 
smith and sculptor. He was born at Florence in 1500 
and died there in 1570. His father was determined to 
make a musician of him but Benvenuto was equally de¬ 
termined to become a goldsmith. He finally carried his 
point and established himself with a goldsmith. His vio¬ 
lent temper constantly led him into difficulties and his 
life was full of adventures which are related in his cele¬ 
brated autobiography. He spent much time in Rome 
working for several popes. He also went to Paris at the 
desire of Francis I, but family affairs called him back to 
Florence and Duke Cosmo de’ Medici persuaded him to 
break his word to the French king and remain at home. 
The Duke gave Benvenuto a house where he cast his 
famous “ Perseus.” His beautiful goldsmith’s work has 
nearly all vanished owing to the value of the material in 
which it was executed; the gold and silver and precious 
stones being put to other uses in times of stress. 

THE STORY OF TRAJAN’S COLUMN 
Trajan, Marcus Ulpius Trajanus, surnamed Da- 
cicus and Parthicus. Born at Italica, Spain, about 53 
A. d.; died at Selinus, Cilicia, 117. A famous Roman 
Emperor, 98-117 A. D. He early entered the army and 
conducted many brilliant campaigns. Chief among them 
was the war against the Dacians, 100-106 A. D. 

Decebalus. A title of honor among the Dacians, 
meaning chief ruler or king. Also a Dacian king at war 
with Rome during the reigns of Domitian and Trajan. 
He died in 106 A. D. 

Dacia. A Roman province, lying between the Car¬ 
pathian Mountains on the north, the Danube on the 
south, the Theiss on the west and the Dniester on the 
east, and corresponding to modern Roumania, Transyl- 
229 




NOTES 


vania and part of Hungary. It was conquered by Tra¬ 
jan between ioi and 106 a. d. and made a Roman prov¬ 
ince which it remained until the time of Aurelius, 270- 
273 A. D. 

Column of Trajan. A monument in Rome erected 
114 A. d. in honor of the Emperor after the Dacian war 
and built with Dacian spoil. It is a Roman Doric col¬ 
umn of marble on a square basement. The column with¬ 
out the statue of St. Peter which now surmounts it is 
127^2 feet high. The story of the war is sculptured in 
reliefs ascending in a spiral around the column. There 
are about 2,500 human figures besides those of animals 
and accessories. 


THE END 











































































